


The Boys Who Lived

by Seeker0fTruth



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 05:49:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 33,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19267075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seeker0fTruth/pseuds/Seeker0fTruth
Summary: Harry is whisked off to Mesa Galgani, a Defense School in Utah, to protect him from notorious mass murderer Sirius Black. With only one other Hogwarts student to support him, will Harry's growth be stunted? Or fortified?





	1. Breakfast at Grimmauld Place

**Author's Note:**

> AN: I dislike Author's Notes, so I'll keep it short. This story begins in the summer prior to Fifth Year, after the trial in the Wizengamot but before Harry returns to Hogwarts. Events prior to the beginning of the story follow cannon with one exception: Cassius Warrington (the Slytherin Chaser) was Hogwarts Champion in the Tri-Wizard tournament, not Cedric Diggory.
> 
> I hope you enjoy.

"Warrington! No!"

Harry Potter shot out of his dream, out of his bed, and back into his slightly musty bedroom in his Godfather's house at Grimmauld Place, in London. By the time his feet hit the cold, creaky floor, his wand was in his hand. Ron Weasley—his best mate, sleeping in the next bed over—cracked an eye.

"Y'alright, Harry?" he asked sleepily.

Harry set his wand down and ran his clammy hands through his wild tangle of black hair, taking deep, slow breaths, drinking in the dark room: the peeling wallpaper, the mass of his tangled sheets. The peacefulness—the normality—of it all, was so different from the graveyard he'd been dreaming of just moments before.

"Yeah, Ron, everything's fine. I'm going to go downstairs; you go back to sleep."

Ron rolled over and was snoring instantly.

Harry padded down the hall, taking special care by the portrait of Mrs. Black, the previous owner of the house. She liked being woken in the early hours of the morning even less than she liked being woken up at other times of the day.

He found, as he reached the kitchen, that he wasn't the first person up for the day. Mrs. Molly Weasley was a kindly-faced woman with her son's red hair who was currently wrestling with the kitchen's rather temperamental stove. His other best friend, Hermione Granger, was currently curled up in a chair by the kitchen table, mug of tea on one knee and a newspaper on the other.

"Morning," Harry offered as he entered.

"Harry, dear!" Mrs. Weasley exclaimed, bustling over. "Good morning. It's early for you, isn't it?" She checked her watch. "Oh my, yes. Did you sleep alright? Are you feeling clammy? Sick?" She peered at his face, looking at his color, then tried to place her hand on his forehead.

Harry ducked the hand and sat in the chair next to Hermione. "I'm fine, Mrs. Weasley, thanks for asking. Just up early, that's all."

Mrs. Weasley hmmmmed, obviously unconvinced. "Well, if you're sure, dear. The cleaning schedule is pretty light today, so if you need to have a kip this afternoon, you certainly may. I was about to start making breakfast—would you like an egg and some toast? Tea? There's a pot already ready."

Knowing the quickest way to get Mrs. Weasley to stop fussing—Harry liked the attention but hated being fussed over—he agreed and sat down next to Hermione moments later with eggs, toast and a heavy mug of dark tea.

As Mrs. Weasley retreated back to the kitchen to continue her preparations for breakfast—with many loud clangs and bangs and rushing water to remind Harry and Hermione that she couldn't hear them, even though she probably could—Hermione leaned over and whispered "I know you're still having nightmares, Harry,"

Harry shrugged, filling his mouth with hot eggs to avoid having to answer. He didn't want to start the slide into another shouting match; his temper had been on a hair trigger all summer.

"Fine," Hermione hissed, taking in his non-response. "Don't talk about it. But I'm worried about you, Harry. Ron's worried about you! Mrs. Weasley and Sirius are worried about you too."

Harry froze. He had thought that he had kept his nighttime visits to the graveyard, if not a secret, at least quiet. His resolve to avoid a shouting match melted away as hot anger licked at his insides. There was only one person who could have given him away.

He rose from his chair. "Excuse me while I go kill my squealing best friend—" he growled rising from his chair.

"Harry!" Hermione reprimanded, placing a hand on his arm and pulling him back down. "For your information, I haven't heard a word about this from Ron. I sleep right down the hall! When you shout in your sleep, I can hear you! When you wake up in the middle of the night and pace around the house muttering to yourself, Sirius can hear you!" She was keeping her voice so low and fast that it was practically a hiss.

Harry glowered and settled back down into his chair.

"Harry, what you're going through is a normal part of grief. The anger, the nightmares, it's all normal. We just want you to talk to someone, anyone, about it."

Harry, still glowering at the remains of his eggs, said nothing.

After a long silence, Hermione offered "I never really knew W-, um, Cassius. Did he-? Was he. . . nice?"

Harry didn't speak for a long time. Was Warrington nice? Not really, in Harry's recollection, although they'd only spoken on a handful of occasions, and only at length for two.

They dwelt in silence for a long moment, the clatter and banging from the kitchen filling the quiet between them. Harry knew she wasn't going to let it go—couldn't let it go, probably—and so when it seemed she couldn't stand it any longer and was about to try again said "The very last thing he did was save my life."

"Oh, Harry," Hermione put her hand to her mouth "I'm so—" Harry did not want, did not need, could not possibly use, her sympathy at that moment. If he stopped he would never, ever be able to get the words out, and so continued over her "We got to the end of the maze at the same time, Fleur and Krum were already out. I was pretty banged up—I was picked up and then dropped by an Acromantula and my . . . I did something to my leg. I couldn't run." He shifted uncomfortably, remember the pain, the exhaustion. "Honestly, I could barely walk. We dueled for the cup and he won, but I still got my hand on it. It took us to . . . to that graveyard. And we sort of looked at each other, you know, 'were you expecting this?' and then there was a noise."

Harry swallowed, his throat dry; he took a swig from his mug of tea, just for something to do to delay the moment when he had to say it out loud. Finally, "Then he . . . grabbed me and said 'Stay behind me, Potter!'" Harry tried to adopt Warrington's gruff, brotherly tone. He bit his lip. He looked down, again, at his plate. "Then he died. Wormtail just . . . He, Voldemort, just said 'Kill the spare!' and . . ."

His voice died away.

Hermione said nothing, just moved her chair closer, so her armrest touched his, and they sat there in silence, shoulders touching. Harry let his head fall against the back of the chair and closed his eyes.

"Remember when his name came out of the goblet?"

He wasn't looking at her any longer, but he could hear the rueful, sad smile in her voice.

"Yeah." He was smiling too, at the memory. "Fred, George and Ron all got detentions for swearing in the Great Hall."

"What did Ron call him?" Hermione asked.

"I think I called him 'A brutish, pube-headed, knarl-sniffing son of a flobberworm," said the man himself, walking in and yawning, his too-small pajamas showing two inches of ankle. "And that he had a lumber-pile for a mouth." He stopped dead. "Oh, um, good morning, mum."

"Ronald Weasley!" Mrs. Weasley huffed angrily as she hurried out of the kitchen, pots, pans, and serving dishes floating after her like loyal pets. She began flicking her wands and the dishes settled to the table more forcefully than usual. "If I ever-" thunk "hear you-" thunk "describe someone-" thunk "like that-" thunk "again." She rounded on him, hands on hips and with a fierce glint in her eyes "you will rue the day that you were born." She glared up at Ron for a moment. "Is that clear?"

Ron swallowed "Yes, mum."

Mrs. Weasley turned, surveying the empty chairs at the table. "Now, where are Sirius, Ginny and the boys? I sent Kreacher to round them up ten minutes ago . . ." She bustled off.

Ron slid into one of the chairs next to Harry and Hermione. Keeping his voice low "Blimey, you think she'd lay off a bit. He was just a slimy -"

"Ron!" Hermione cut in. "Harry was just telling me—" She broke off, looking at Harry. Harry nodded to her. Hermione continued, voice lowered "Harry was just telling me that Warrington saved his life in the maze." Ron looked from Hermione to Harry, mouth agape, at a loss for words.

So Harry told him the story, too.

Once Harry had finished, Ron asked "A Slytherin saved Harry's life . . . Do you know what that means?" in a breathless, disbelieving voice.

"Yes." Hermione shot back acerbically "If a Slytherin saved Harry's life, or put his life on the line for Harry, it means that not every Slytherin is born evil and you can't just hate them categorically."

Ron rolled his eyes. "This is serious, Hermione! Warrington was a brute! He put some of the Gryffindor quidditch players in the hospital wing!"

It was Hermione's turn to roll her eyes. "And that's the mark of an evil person, is it? How many Slytherins have Fred and George put into the hospital wing?"

"Four hundred, at last count." Came a buoyant voice from the doorway followed by a second, identical voice "That's individual cases, obviously—if we sent Malfoy to the hospital wing covered in pimples, and then, after he gets out, we send him back with acute amnesia and no underpants, that counts twice."

Fred and George—stocky, red-headed twins, identical down to their mischievous grins and the acknowledged pranking kings of Hogwarts—sat down next to Harry, Ron and Hermione.

"Only four hundred Slytherins?" scoffed a third voice. Two other people—Harry's godfather Sirius, who had spoken, and Ron's younger sister Ginny entered after the twins, with Mrs. Wesley chivvying them along. "Prongs and I got more than two thousand by the end of our time in Hogwarts. He dropped languidly next to the twins. "It's easiest if you can just get them all at the opening feast."

"That is a metric that could use improving," admitted one of the twins solemnly—probably Fred, in Harry's estimation.

Ginny laughed. "Learn from the masters, boys."

Sirius laughed as well. "No, no, my time is over. I want to hear about what you've been up to."

Harry—eager to keep this topic of conversation going—asked "Yeah, what have you been working on? There hasn't been an explosion from your room in weeks."

"You wound us, my boy," replied George jovially, hand on heart.

"Ickle Harry, holding our youthful exuberance against us," Fred agreed, shaking his head.

Ginny spluttered. "You blew up the burrow three weeks ago!"

Disregarding the near-destruction of his family home with an airy wave, George whipped a small cloth something out of his pocket and set it on the table."Sirius is right, that's all in the past and today, dearest sister, is about the future!" Everyone at the table peered at what appeared to be an ordinary, slightly faded, muggle baseball cap.

Mrs. Weasley bustled over and gave it a brief glance. "Well, it's nice that you've finally learned to sew, dears. Is everyone ready for breakfast?" Everyone began tucking in.

"Mum!" Protested Fred over the sounds of knives and forks. "This is the latest in fashion! In six months, every fashionable witch in Paris and Milan will have one. Here, let me show you."

He picked up the cap and tapped it several times with his wand. The hat shifted—first, to a cowboy hat, then a flowered bonnet, a lime-green bowler, a boater, until it transformed into a straw sun-hat with a purple ribbon. He handed it to his mother, who looked shocked at the kindly gesture.

"Think of it as a late Birthday Present, Mum. We always want to make sure that you're on the cutting edge of fashion." George chimed in.

"Well, it's lovely dears, thank you very much. Let's see how it looks, shall we?" and she placed the sun hat on her head, which promptly vanished.

Ginny screamed. Hermione jumped up. Harry was shocked. Fred, George and Sirius pealed with laughter. Mrs. Weasley—who obviously didn't notice anything out of the ordinary was turning this way and that waving her hands. "What? What is it? What did they do this time?"

It took a moment for everyone to calm down and communicate to Mrs. Weasley what had happened. "Headless hats!" George choked out, still laughing.

"That really is extraordinary magic," admitted Hermione in a slightly awed voice. "I didn't see any rippling-that's not a disillusionment charm, it's real invisibility, like—" she glanced at Harry significantly "like an invisibility cloak."

Fred nodded, obviously pleased that she was impressed. "It was a real trick getting the invisibility to extend farther than the hat itself. Usually you need demiguise hair for that, which would obviously have been prohibitive for something we want to sell for about 10 sickles. What we discovered was—"

Exactly what they discovered Harry never found out, for at that moment an enormous silver bird burst into the room and soared over their heads before perching on the back of an unoccupied chair and speaking with what was unmistakably the voice of Albus Dumbledore. "I will be arriving shortly with young Mr. Longbottom. Sirius, Molly, everything that we feared has come to pass and I believe they will need to leave immediately if we're going to have a chance of success. Please begin the necessary preparations." Then the bird dissolved into silver vapor, vanishing even more quickly than it had arrived.

Everything immediately descended into bedlam. Sirius stood so quickly that his chair toppled. Without pausing to right it, he sprinted farther into the house bellowing "Kreacher! Kreacher!"

Harry shot up too, hands clenched. "What's going on? What did he mean 'Everything that we have feared has come to pass?' Why is Neville coming?"

Mrs. Weasley wrung her hands anxiously. "Harry, dear, Professor Dumbledore will explain everything once he arrives, which looks to be in just a few minutes. But it sounds like . . . ooh, dear, Harry, I'm sorry, but it means that you aren't going to be returning to Hogwarts with Ron and Hermione. I have to go start packing . . . " She bustled off worriedly, muttering to herself and wringing her hands.

Harry, Ron, Hermione, George, Fred and Ginny stared at each other over the remains of the breakfast that they had so merrily been eating only moments before. What could possibly have happened that would force him to leave Hogwarts? His thoughts flitted to a past desire to live with Sirius—but no, Mrs. Weasley and Sirius had left to pack, so wherever he was going to be, it wasn't Grimmauld Place. Harry had mused on the fact that the safest place in the world was wherever Albus Dumbledore happened to be at the time. What had happened that was so dangerous that neither the ancient castle of Hogwarts, or the magically hidden Grimmauld Place, were safe enough?

Hermione was the first to break the silence, and Harry's slowly restarting train of thought. "But why is Dumbledore bringing Neville? There aren't any other 'Mr. Longbottoms', are there? Just Neville and his Grandmother."

Harry lifted his shoulders. "Neville's parents were in the Order in the war. Mad Eye was showing me a picture." The picture had been melancholy for Harry-on one hand, his parents, waving and smiling. On the other hand, half the people in that photograph had died within the year, including his parents.

"Yes but . . . Neville . . . " Hermione trailed off, looking delicate.

"Neville isn't exactly the brightest lumos in your year, is he?" George broke in.

"Couldn't transfigure a heel out of a loaf of bread," agreed Fred.

Suddenly, Ron shot up just like Sirius had done, knocking his chair over. "You're leaving! I-wait! Just-" he spluttered and ran to the fireplace "don't leave without me!" He dashed over to the fireplace, threw a pinch of floo powder into the flames and shouted "The Burrow!" before vanishing in a whirlwind of green flames.

Hermione turned, looking concerned. "What's gotten into—" she stopped, frowning, before turning back to Harry. "It sounds like Dumbledore's coming right now, Harry. You should probably go get dressed." Harry made a face as he glanced down at Dudley's threadbare pajamas and nodded.

Five minutes later, Harry descended back down to the main floor dressed and with his hair, if not lying flat, at least sticking up all over, rather than just on the side of his head he had slept on. Hermione and Ginny were sitting in the living room, arms crossed and looking sour. Ginny looked up when Harry entered.

"Mum banished us out here. She said we were underfoot." Ginny muttered, looking rather darkly at the door that leads into the rest of the house. "And the door's unperturbed, as well, so we can't listen."

Hermione looked anxiously at Harry as he sat. "Dumbledore hasn't arrived yet, but no one seems to know exactly when he'll be here. I did see Mrs. Weasley collecting your clothes from the wash, and Sirius told Kreacher to collect your school things, and then he wandered off to his study, looking for passports." Hermione rattled off, obviously trying to keep Harry as up to date as possible.

"That's when Mum kicked us out." Ginny growled.

"Passports? Whose passports?" Harry asked.

"Yours, it sounded like." Hermione replied.

"The Dursleys would never have gotten me a passport."

"It is good then, that we did not rely on them to acquire the document, as it's absence would have hindered our plans. Hagrid commissioned it on your behalf when you first went to Gringotts, almost exactly four years ago." Dumbledore, in robes that shifted from lavender to stormy grey as Harry watched, strode into the room, Neville nearly tripping over himself in his haste to follow.

"Mr. Potter," Dumbledore nodded in Harry's direction without meeting his eye, and any hopes that Harry might have had about the Headmaster's behavior being less distant were immediately dashed. His greetings and head nods to "Ms. Granger, Ms. Weasley," were every bit as formal, every bit as cool and polite. "I trust you will make Mr. Longbottom feel welcome. I need to speak with Molly and Sirius. Please excuse me." Dumbledore swept out of the room.

Neville was looking around nervously. "Um, Hi everyone. Are we really in . . . Grimmauld Place?" Neville's voice stuttered, even as he tried to speak casually.

"Um. yeah." Given the events of the morning, Harry wasn't expecting that particular question and was eager for any additional information about what Dumbledore was up to. "Sit down." Harry waved at an unoccupied chair. "What happened, Neville? Do you know what's going on?"

Hermione gave him a withering glance. "Be polite, Harry."

Harry rolled his eyes, then turned inquiringly to Neville, now seated nervously in a chair. Neville shook his head. "I don't know anything useful, really. I was eating breakfast when I saw Professor Dumbledore come in. That's not really a big deal, I mean, he and Gran have been friends for years and years. She's in the Wizengamot and always votes with Dumbledore." There was an underlying tone of pride through this. "Then she came out and said that Dumbledore would be taking me to London and that I probably wouldn't be going back to Hogwarts for this term. We apparated outside, and Dumbledore told me "#12 Grimmauld Place is the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix" and we came in." He peered at them all. "What is the Order of the Phoenix?"

Harry flopped backwards in his chair, sighing loudly. "It's the anti-Voldemort group that Dumbledore ran in the last war. He's put it back together since Voldemort came back in June."

"And you all live here? All the time? Am I going to get to join too?" Harry lifted his head. Neville's face had a very un-Neville, almost rapacious gleam to it.

Ginny shook her head. "No, it's not like that." Her voice was sour. "We're under-age. Even Fred and George aren't allowed to join, and they are of age. We mostly just live here. All we've been doing is cleaning this . . . house." She gestured at the peeling wallpaper.

Neville deflated. "So then, what are we doing here if we're not going back to Hogwarts?"

There was a moment of confusion at this, until Hermione caught on. "Oh no, Neville. Ginny and I and the twins—and Ron, whenever he gets back from the Burrow—are all going back to Hogwarts. It's just you and Harry that Dumbleore singled out."

"Me and . . . Harry?" Neville blinked in confusion.

"I don't know either, mate." Harry glared at the door, as if doing so would make it open. To his surprise, it did, and Sirius stepped out from the doorway.

"Neville?" Sirius strode in with a grin, his hand extended. "I'm Sirius Black, good to meet you. I was friends with your parents."

Neville eyes were wide with terror. He fumbled at his pocket, drawing his wand to point at Sirius' chest.

Sirius just laughed, holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "I'm innocent, I swear! Just ask Harry. Or Dumbledore. He wants to see the pair of you in my Dad's office, just up the stairs." His eyes fell on Neville's wand. "Is that your dad's wand?"

Neville was in the middle of pocketing his wand when it fell out of his fingers. "Um, y-yeah, M-mister Black. How did you know?"

Sirius laughed again. "Well, I'm not that innocent. Your dad was Head Boy one year, a couple years ahead of me at school and caught me sneaking around after curfew. We had a bit of a duel over it, actually."

Harry was intrigued. "Who won?"

"Merlin's pants, Frank did. Wiped the floor with me, honestly. Your dad was a powerful bloke, Neville." He eyed the wand, which to Harry looked rather battered, and took in Neville's generally timid appearance. "The wand working well for you? It's rare for a son to be able to use his father's wand."

"It's . . . alright." Neville pocketed it, looking sheepish but wary.

"Glad to hear it." Sirius said heartily, before gesturing through the door he had just left. " Three floors up those stairs, first door on the left, you can't miss it."

Harry led the way up the creaky stairs to Sirius' dad's office. Harry was surprised to notice that even one step above Neville, they were the same height. Neville had grown quite a lot over the summer and lost some of his round-faced appearance.

"What's your guess as to what's going on?" Harry asked as they ascended.

"No idea." Neville shook his head. "Have we done anything wrong, do you think?"

Harry shook his head. "If it was something like that, McGonagall would handle it herself, wouldn't she? And it could wait for the start of term."

Neville chuckled nervously. "Not unless they snap your wand automatically for melting your hundredth cauldron."

Neville's self-deprecating humor caught Harry off guard, and he laughed as well. "Then you would have been expelled at the end of your first week rather than now," he teased.

"I didn't melt a hundred cauldrons my first week!" protested Neville. "It took me at least two!"

They laughed together before stopping suddenly; had reached the third floor and Harry halted before the closed door. They glanced nervously at each other one more time before reaching for the doorknob when Dumbledore's voice reached their ears. "Harry, Neville, please come in; time is very short."

The boys shared one more glance before entering the awaiting office.

Harry had never been in this room before. Sirius had informed them that it was too dangerous and, having met Sirius' mother's portrait, Harry wasn't inclined to argue. Somehow, even deep in the house, there was a dirty window looking out on the muggle park outside Grimmauld Place. Even with the window, the room was close and claustrophobic, filled almost to bursting with dark bookshelves and dusty, mysterious knickknacks. The walls above them were crowded with portraits in dingy frames, all empty and slightly ominous.

"Harry, Neville, please sit down, we have much to discuss," Albus Dumbledore's voice brought Harry's attention to the man himself. Harry had seen the Headmaster at close quarters on several other occasions and had never seen him looking quite so careworn. Up close, Dumbledore's robes looked rumpled as if he'd worn them through a long day, although it was still quite early in the morning. He gestured at two uncomfortable looking high-backed armchairs. Harry and Neville sat in the armchairs, looking expectant.

"As you will both no doubt be aware, after the events of June I have struggled to convince Cornelius and the Ministry that Lord Voldemort has returned and is growing in strength, gathering his followers," He paused for a moment to allow them to speak up, but both Harry and Neville simply nodded and remained silent.

"The Ministry is of the opinion that neither of you is safe at Hogwarts now that the "famed serial killer" Sirius Black has apparently been joined by some of his colleagues." Dumbledore's voice was very dry, and his amused glance fell on Harry with a little of his usual twinkle. "The ministry, or rather, I should say the minister, believes it is unwise at this point in time to leave the safety of two boys sought after by Death Eaters entrusted to a school. It is the minister's opinion that you would be safest in protective custody—"

Harry could contain his outrage no longer, and jumped out of his chair. "But sir! Everyone knows that Hogwarts is the safest place in the world! And you know as well as anyone that Sirius isn't a danger to me or to anyone! I understand that Voldemort or his followers might come after me, but I'm willing to take the risk—"

Dumbledore raised his hands placatingly and Harry fell silent. "Harry, Harry, I understand. More, I sympathize, but the time for these sorts of objections—which I have raised with the minister many times—is past. I do not have the power to thwart the minister when he has the full weight of the Wizengamot behind him, and in this matter they are united as I have never seen them before. And please," he gestured placatingly with his hand. "Think of it from their point of view. Two years ago, a convict with a knife attacked the guardian of the portrait hole, the student in the bed next to yours and even managed to kidnap three students off the front lawn while in full sight of my office windows. And after all that, I have been unable to provide a satisfactory answer as to how a fugitive with no wand managed to infiltrate the castle and grounds no fewer than three times. I cannot say for certain where Cornelius' motivations arise from in this matter, but many members of the Wizengamot are concerned, not for your safety, but for the safety of other students."

"Okay," Harry said slowly, understanding dawning. The ministry thought Sirius had gathered a bunch of Death Eaters to infiltrate Hogwarts and kill him and nothing Dumbledore told them made any difference. He sat. "So what does the minister want?"

Dumbledore's smile was brittle and sad. "A great many things, like most men. And also like most men, he will get fewer of them than he desires. In this instance, however, he would like you moved to ministry custody, I imagine in a safehouse outside Hogwarts until such time as the he feels it is safe."

"By which he means, sir, after the Dementors have caught up to Sirius Black and have him kissed."

"Quite. It will surprise neither of you, I am sure, to learn that that the minister and I disagree about a great many things, this not least of all. You may, of course, take Cornelius up on his offer of safety,"

"Until the Death Eaters infiltrate the ministry, like they did last time," muttered Neville darkly.

Dumbledore nodded. "Just so."

"So . . . if we can't stay at Hogwarts, and we can't go to the ministry, where should we go?" Harry asked. "We're not just going to stay in Grimmauld Place, are we?" The thought of being trapped in this house, even with Neville and Sirius for company, while everyone else got to go have fun back at Hogwarts without him, made him slightly sick.

"No, not Grimmauld Place," agreed Dumbledore. "I have taken the liberty to make some arrangements. As a premier institution of Magical Learning, students at Hogwarts who achieve exceptionally high marks in a particular field are often offered scholarships from other institutions specializing in that field." Dumbledore nodded at Harry. "Ms. Granger, of course, has been offered several of these scholarships, but has declined them all, and I believe, Neville, that you received such an offer yourself last term to research Magical plants in Brazil due to your excellent herbology scores."

Harry—head spinning that Hermione had received multiple offers to study internationally but had apparently turned them all down—glanced over at Neville to see him staring at his shoes, face flushed.

Dumbledore continued "Professor Lupin is and was a well regarded instructor with accreditation and connections across the continent. The pair of you," he gestured at Harry and Neville "are the only two students to achieve a score of "Outstanding" on his final exam at the end of last year. As such, you have both been offered positions at an elite academy in America specializing in personal defense, survival and dueling. The graduates at this academy generally move on to accept positions as elite bodyguards for important members of the American senate or liaisons to the American Muggle armed forces."

At this point, Neville raised his hand. "Sir . . . sir, can I ask a question?"

"Ask away, my boy," Dumbledore responded genially.

"I can see why Harry might want to go, sir, why he might need this . . . stuff, sir. He gets himself into a lot of weird scrapes—" he turned to Harry "No offense."

Harry shrugged. "None taken."

"But he's the Boy Who Lived. He fights basilisks and dementors and dark lords and stuff but I'm . . . I'm just a gardener. I like plants. The closest I've ever gotten to an adventure was when Hermione body-bound me and left me in the common room all night."

Harry winced, feeling guilty, but interjected "There was that time you tried to attack Crabbe and Goyle single-handedly. Or the time you went into the Forbidden Forest to track something murdering unicorns. Or the time you got into the 3rd floor corridor with Fluffy—"

Neville cut him off. "The point is, I'm not, well, bodyguard material, am I? I can barely do magic sometimes. McGonagall was criticizing me just last week about switching spells and that's a first year spell! My parents may have been aurors, but I'm . . ." Neville trailed off as he gestured dismissively at himself, seemingly disgusted with his sum total.

Dumbledore looked grave. "Neville, I believe you are in very nearly as much danger as Mr. Potter himself, and for similar reasons. Please allow me to explain my suspicions." Neville nodded, looking apprehensive.

Dumbledore waved his wand, gently summoning a broad stone basin with intricate carvings on the edges before allowing it to settle on his desk. The contents were silvery and faintly luminous as they slopped around the edges of the bowl but never quite spilling out.

"What I am about to discuss with you is a very grave secret; it goes against my better judgement to reveal this to you at all. You are not to discuss this with anyone other than yourselves. That includes close friends and family. Is that understood?"

The two boys nodded.

"Neville, I understand that you take Divination with Professor Trelawney. I have discussed this briefly with Harry, but it may surprise you to learn that Professor Trelawney has, to my knowledge, made two legitimate prophecies. It is her first prophecy which concerns us today." Neville looked apprehensive, but nodded.

"Allow me a moment, then, to set the stage." He waved his wand at the basin on his desk, and some of the silvery fluid rose up and collected into a figure. The figure's substantial shawls and oversized spectacles made it obvious to Harry that they were looking at Professor Trelawney. She waved her hands in a dramatic fashion but made no noise, revolving in place.

"The year before the two of you were born, I was interviewing Professor Trelawney for the recently vacated post of Professor of Divination. It was not, I must say, a post I particularly desired to fill. Sybil is, however, descended from a very famous and very gifted seer and I felt that politeness demanded I at least meet with her. I will not bore you with the details of the interview. As I rose to leave, however, she began to prophesy." Dumbledore's wand twitched and the spectral figure of Trelawney began to speak as if the real Trelawney were right there in the room. It was not the dreamy, ethereal voice that Harry and Neville were used to from their Divination classes either but the staccato, rapt voice that Harry had heard on only one occasion.

"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord Approaches . . . born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies . . . "

Dumbledore's wand twitched and the figured stopped moving and speaking. "It was here the barman discovered that there was a Death Eater listening at the door of the room where I was conducting the interview." He paused a moment to let that sink in.

Neville spoke first, mouth dry. "So . . . He knows about the prophecy?"

Dumbledore nodded gravely. Harry had no doubt which 'He' Neville was talking about.

"The Death Eater fled and reported immediately to his master; Lord Voldemort knew of the prophecy almost immediately. The silver lining of the situation was that Voldemort knew of the prophecy's existence and beginning, but did not know its full contents. If he had. he may not have acted so rashly."

Harry's mind was racing. "So when I asked you, first year, why Voldemort attacked my family . . . ?"

"I declined to tell you about the prophecy at that time, that is correct. I thought the time was not yet right." Dumbledore answered, looking pained. "Alas, I was unaware of the eavesdropper and would not find out until after the Sybil completed her prophecy."

Harry wasn't sure how he felt about a prophecy"—that apparently pertained to him"—being hidden from him all this time. He glanced at Neville, who was looking anxious.

Dumbledore gestured and the harsh, guttural (and very un-Trelawney-like) voice of Trelawney began again.

" . . . and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not" here Dumbledore again paused her voice. He gazed at the pair of them levelly.

"That's the bit that makes you think the prophecy is about Harry, and not about me," said Neville in a monotone.

"Indeed." Agreed Dumbledore "Although it's important to note that at the time I did not know of whom the prophecy spoke—it could easily have been either of you. Even now I am not certain," he stressed the last word "that it does pertain to Harry." He affixed his gaze solely to Neville. "Your parents were equally as brave, you were born at the end of July and your own life has been marked by Lord Voldemort, just as Harry's has been, although," Harry could hear the small smile in Dumbledore's voice "Perhaps not quite so literally."

Neville's mouth was set in a thin line as he stared at Dumbledore. "Do you think I can get the prophecy from the hall?"

Now Harry was lost.

Dumbledore shrugged, spreading his hands wide. "I am both much cleverer and more well read on the subject than anyone else I know, and I can honestly say I am unsure." He gestured at Harry. "I believe"—for the reasons you immediately deduced"—that the prophecy refers to you, Harry. Mark him as his equal . . . the mere fact that he chose to go after Harry would likely be enough to confirm that. But the scar in addition leaves no doubt in my mind."

"So that's why we're both going," breathed Neville. "You think someone is going to use us to steal the prophecy from the hall. Where are we going? What's the name of the school? It's not Ilvermorny, is it?"

Dumbledore chuckled. "No. Ilvermorny is the largest school in North America, but it is by no means the only one. I suspect that many of your classmates will hail from there. No, the school I've been in communication with is run by an old friend of mine, Major Elinor Montgomery. It's called "Mesa Galgani". Have either of you heard of it?"

Harry and Neville shook their heads.

"I'm unsurprised. Mesa Galgani was established by a Wizard named Ephram Westerham, who was paranoid about his safety and the secrets of his school. The headmasters and headmistresses since have kept a very low profile, and the school is well defended and well hidden. I consider it unlikely that Lord Voldemort or any of his Death Eaters are even aware of its existence. Nevertheless, we have similarly registered the pair of you at over a dozen schools, all much more well known than Mesa Galgani."

"To further reduce suspicion, you will be enrolled under assumed names. Harry Reed Smith," he nodded at Harry "and Frank Neville Little, who prefers to go by his middle name. You are both half-bloods, homeschooled in Ipswitch. The other details," Dumbledore spread his hands "I leave to your imagination."

Harry nodded. Neville, out of the corner of his eye, looked worried and pensive.

Dumbledore checked his silver watch with twelve hands and no numbers. "We are very nearly out of time. There is one last element of grave importance." Dumbledore's smile belied his words. "Because of its greater emphasis on certain educational areas, Mesa Galgani does not have a curriculum for astronomy or divination, and its history curriculum is greatly different than that which is taught at Hogwarts, And while I have every faith in both of your ability to self-study the required OWL material, I would feel remiss if I didn't tell you that it will, in all likelihood, negatively impact your OWL scores in those areas. If either of you feel that this will negatively impact your future careers, let me know now so other accommodations can be made."

Harry and Neville shared glances and grins. History of Magic-easily the most boring class at Hogwarts because it was taught by an inattentive ghost-was not on anyone's list of favorite classes.

Harry heaved a huge, fake, sigh. "If that's the price for safety professor, I think it's one I'm willing to pay."

Neville chuckled. "Personally professor, I was really looking forward to studying Giant Wars, but I think I'll manage."

Dumbledore nodded solemnly, his eyes twinkling. "I'm glad that you both have proper esteem for your educations, but I understand about desperate times. It is time for you to be leaving, your portkey departs in just a few minutes."

Harry and Neville lead Dumbledore back down the creaky stairs and into the main sitting room, where everyone from breakfast-sans Ron-were waiting. Harry's trunk sat next to Neville's.

Mrs. Weasley was on him in an instant, hugging him, telling him about the peanut brittle and the fudge she'd packed in his trunk. Harry shook the twins' hands, and briefly hugged Ginny before being crushed by a rather weepy looking Hermione. "Ooh, Harry, look after yourself, won't you?"

"Yeah, well, keep your nose clean too, Hermione. I won't be there to talk you out of doing something dangerous."

She laughed and hiccupped before letting him go. "Where has Ron gotten himself to-?"

Sirius and Neville had their fingers on a rusty can and Harry turned to join them when they heard the great whoosh that indicated the floo had let someone in.

"Wait!" Called Ron, who sprinted around the corner, feet slapping the stone floor, still in his too-short pajamas. He staggered, nearly collapsing in front of Harry as he limply held his hand toward Harry. Puzzled, Harry reached out to take whatever-it-was and discovered it was his own firebolt, shrunk down to the size of a ball-point pen.

Harry stashed it in his pocket. He'd almost forgotten his broomstick at the Burrow! He and the Weasleys had spent an afternoon there after his acquittal and they had assumed they'd be back before the start of term, but if Ron hadn't remembered . . .

Harry pulled Ron up with a laugh. "Thanks, mate. I owe you one."

"Ha." Ron panted. "Had Dad shrink it for you. Didn't want you to go without it. Take care of yourself, alright?"

"I will!" Harry leaned forward and added with a whisper. "Look after her, will you?" At Ron's puzzled look, Harry flicked his eyes significantly at Hermione and then back to Ron's. Ron made an "Oh" of understanding, then nodded.

"Fifteen seconds, Harry," called Sirius.

Harry touched his finger to the rusty can, making a face.

The last thing he saw before the hook caught behind his navel and pulled him away was his friends waving and Ron's arm snaking around Hermione's shoulders to comfort her.


	2. Mesa Galgani

Portkeys were not Harry's favorite way to travel. Being dragged from one place to another by an invisible hook behind your bellybutton was bad enough when you were going a hundred miles, let alone a thousand. The first portkey took them to a windswept crag of rock thrusting out of a glacier somewhere in Greenland. Neville and Sirius landed deftly on the broad, flat rock that thrust out of the mountainside, but Harry slid and rolled twenty feet down the icy and gravelly slope until Sirius cast an Arresto Momentum and Harry could scramble back up the slope, his glasses broken, his hands scraped and his pride stinging with embarrassment.

The wind off the glacier was bitingly cold through Harry's summer clothes and his and Neville's teeth were chattering after seconds.

"Don't worry!" Sirius called bracingly over the bitter wind after he had repaired Harry's glasses. Harry was glad the biting wind was a suitable excuse for his flushed and embarrassed face. "We're right where we're supposed to be. Dumbledore has a Danish ministry official meeting us here. Should be just a minute." He quickly cast warming charms on the pair of them to fend off the bitter cold before transforming into a dog. Neville—obviously still wary about "famed mass murderer Sirius Black"—nevertheless quickly wound his chilly fingers into Sirius' thick fur.

The Danish Ministry official's cheerful halloo soon found them and after a cold few minutes clutching an empty soup can they found themselves deposited them onto a (substantially warmer) muggle rooftop in a city that Harry didn't immediately recognize.

Harry brushed the tar off his pants and quickly joined Neville on the edge of the roof. It was very early in the morning, and the lights from the city were mirrored in the choppy water.

"Where are we?" Harry asked. Sirius opened his mouth to reply but Neville was quicker. "New Amsterdam!" he exclaimed excitedly. "Look!"

Harry quickly saw where Neville was pointing. Even he, with his limited muggle education recognized the hundred-foot tall green woman as the Statue of Liberty. Not for the first time Harry lamented his lack of knowledge about the wizarding world. "Are there lots of wizards in New York?"

"Oh yeah!" said Sirius with a chuckle. "Almost as many as in all of Britain. It's been the home of Macusa—that's the, um, American version of the Ministry—since before the statute of secrecy was passed. I visited here, once, with your parents." He added, almost as an afterthought, his gaze far away.

"What?" Harry asked excitedly. He had flipped through the photo album Hagrid had given him dozens of times, and he'd never seen any pictures he thought were from America.

"Oh, not your parents, Harry, Neville's." Sirius turned to Neville. "Frank was my boss when I was an auror, and we went to some stuffy conference together. He brought his wife." Sirius laughed at the memory. "We had a great time . . ." He trailed away, his laughing, mocking smile turning into a concerned frown.

"Sirius? Are you okay?" Harry finally asked, after Sirius didn't say anything for a full minute.

Sirius' face was pensive as he turned to face him. "Hm? Oh, Yeah, fine, Harry." A wry smile appeared on his face as he tapped his temple. "Being near the Dementors for so long . . . I lost a lot of memories in Azkaban, mostly happy ones. Sometimes I remember events that seem to lead to a good time, but then . . . " he shrugged "The memories, just . . . disappear, like fog. I can remember the lead up to Lily and James' wedding but not the day itself. So, I must have been happy, right . . .?" He shook himself like a wet dog, his grin reappearing. "Or drunk! For weddings, that usually means about the same thing!"

Sirius addressed Neville more soberly. "Sorry if I got your hopes up Neville. We spent the days we were here in stuffy meeting rooms with stuffier people. I remember Alice was there too, but I don't remember what we did in the evenings. Probably something fun."

Neville nodded, looking as though someone had snatched a gift from his hands. "It's okay, I understand."

Harry remembered Dumbledore's grave voice informing him about what had happened to Neville's parents. "Tortured into insanity. They do not remember him. I believe they reside at the permanent residence ward in St. Mungo's . . ."

Harry's heart went out to Neville, but he didn't know what to say. He felt a sudden sense of kinship with Neville. Harry remembered when he had been living at Privet Drive and had known nothing about his parents, his past a big pile of nothing where other people had memories and keepsakes and stories of "One time when I was your age . . .". Learning of his connection to the wizarding world had filled that somewhat, and meeting Professor Lupin, and Sirius, and the cloak, and Hagrid's photo album . . . but there were still a lot of unanswered questions. Harry knew Neville must be feeling the same way—as though one of those missing stories would finally be given to him, but snatched away at the last moment. Harry realized, maybe for the first time, that despite the fact that Neville's parents were still alive, Harry was not the only orphan in his year at Hogwarts.

With a sudden pop, the trio were confronted by a woman wearing an old fashioned olive-green military uniform, chin length iron grey hair and a hawkish expression. Sirius had his wand pulled on the woman in a trice. The woman's eyes—iron grey, like her hair—flickered in recognition at Sirius, but her gaze landed heavily on his pointed wand.

"Good morning, Mr. Black." she said calmly. She nodded her head at the two boys. "Is this Mr. Potter and Mr. Longbottom?"

"Tell me Elinor," Sirius asked "What was the last thing you said to Albus when we were all together."

The woman, Elinor apparently, smiled. "I believe I told him 'Until the next time a madman with a wand tries to take over the world." Her voice was tinged with wry amusement.

Sirius breathed a small sigh of relief before lowering his wand. "Thank you Elinor—".

Elinor had her wand drawn quicker than blinking. "No, thank you, Mr. Black. With reports of the Dark Lord's resurrection, I suppose we should all get used to polyjuice checks. Do you mind answering a question?"

"Not at all," Sirius looked entirely composed, wearing a lopsided grin.

"How did Dumbledore respond?"

Sirius's voice was heavy with wry awareness as he dropped his voice half an octave in an uncanny impression of the headmaster. "'Sooner than we should hope then, I think.'"

Elinor nodded, her wand disappearing as fast as it had appeared. She turned to Neville and Harry, arms clasped behind her back.

"I am Major Elinor Montgomery. Albus and I are friends from the War." She had the decisive manners of a soldier, and Harry could hear the capitalized W in war. " I'll be looking after you for this term." Her manner was brisk but not unfriendly.

Sirius handed two slim folders to the Colonel and faced Harry and Neville, his hands gripping their shoulders.

"I expect you two to look after each other," Harry's eyes locked with Sirius' and he knew that what Sirius really meant was Look after Neville, he needs it.

"I'll send you two an owl after I find a place to stay. Someplace warm, I hope. Learn loads. Represent Hogwarts—well, England—and don't get into too much trouble." He flashed a grin. "But get into a little bit."

"That'll be quite enough, Mr. Black." Said the major wryly. "From what Albus has told me about their night time wanderings, I don't believe that they will need any encouragement."

Harry's voice caught in his throat. "Will—Will a letter for "snuffles" still find you in America?" he asked, not ready to separate quite yet.

Sirius laughed. "America is the land of freedom! I am a free man, and an owl post marked to me will reach me." He adjusted his tie, looking smug. "I was thinking Vegas could use a man of my talent and charm. Do you think—"

The major cut him off. "The portkey leaves in less than a minute and I don't think that'll quite do Mr. Black's planned escapades justice. Mr. Potter, Mr. Longbottom. If you please."

She extended rumpled magazine for them to place their fingers on and they were soon whisked away, leaving a smiling, waving Sirius behind.

Harry's initial reactions to the third Portkey's destination were: dry, rocky, and dark. The sun may have been rising in New Amsterdam, but here in Utah it was still quite early. His second reaction: Merlin's pants, the sky! Harry wasn't a novice at stargazing. He'd taken four years of astronomy lessons, after all. But there was something different about the stars here. Maybe it was the change in humidity— Professor Sinistra had complained at length about the haze of the Earth back in Scotland. Or maybe it was that there was so much more sky here. Without a castle or forest or mountains around them to block the view, the sky seemed to stretcher farther than it ever did at home. But it wasn't just the size of the sky. The entire sky was crammed, stuffed full of stars until it seemed that they would overflow the heavens. As if he could have waited just an instant for one final star to be added and it would all come rushing down and he could have touched one as it fell past. Harry lifted his hand—

"Harry?" It was Nevile's voice breaking his reverie. "I'd hate to get lost out here . . ." his voice trailed away, anxious, as Harry suddenly became aware of the deeper shadow that represented Major Montgomery retreating into the pre-dawn gloom.

"Sure, Neville." Harry felt flustered—he wasn't normally the sort of person to be caught wool gathering. Of course Neville would worry about losing Major Montgomery in the dark—long after other students at Hogwarts had learned to navigate the castle's trick staircases and secret passages, Neville still regularly got lost. Harry shuddered to think of where Neville could get to in the dark in the desert in a country neither of them had ever been to before—Peru, probably. Or maybe Alaska.

"Sure, let's catch up." The two boys quick-walked toward Major Montgomery's rapidly retreating back. As they caught up to her, she began speaking as though picking up from a lecture.

"Mesa Galgani has been occupied by American Indian wizards—ancestors of the Ute and Paiute tribes that exist today—for thousands of years, and was once rumored to hide the sacred fire of the Gods. European Wizards, hearing this legend, were obsessed with finding the secret, believing that somehow the American Indian wizards had managed to wandlessly conjure Gabrathian Fire, a feat that is still considered an impossibility."

"No Everlasting Fire was ever found, but the Mesa continued to fascinate both wizarding and muggle settlers with its remote, highly defensible location. In 1846, a Mormon wizard by the name of Ephram Westerham, fleeing persecution in the East, founded the school that eventually became Mesa Galgani."

At this point, she abruptly stopped. Harry and Neville crashed into one another in the dark in an attempt not to bump into the major. The major lit her wand and the light it cast seemed almost impossibly bright after ten minute's walk through the pitch-dark desert.

"There are many protections surrounding the mesa. Due to Ephram's persecution, security and safety have been a top priority since the foundation of the school. It is, of course, impossible to place the Mesa on any map or to reveal its precise location. Muggle repelling charms extend fifty miles in any direction. Portkeys or apparition cannot bring anyone closer than a mile. Broomsticks will bring you closer, but their enchantments will fail within 250 yards of the mesa." It seemed to Harry that her gaze was fixed on him as she pronounced this and he shifted nervously, touching the shrunken broomstick in his pocket. "Which has proven, in the past, to be a nasty surprise for some unwanted visitors." Her pale wandlight reflected inside the deep shadow of her eyes.

"What I am about to show you is a grave secret. Dumbledore trusts you, which carries great weight with me, although I have found him to be too trusting in the past. If I ever learn that you have divulged this secrets to others, I will find you and we will talk." She let the silence hang for a moment. "You will not enjoy this discussion. Is that clear?"

Harry and Neville both murmured their "Yes Ma'ams."

"Excellent. Now."

Her hand tapped a large boulder behind her. It looked for a moment like she was raising her hand to let her wandlight fall higher and higher up the boulder. But Harry noticed her hand was stationary and the boulder the light fell on kept rising and rising and rising, growing taller and taller until it blocked out the stars, an enormous dark silhouette with the faintest tinge of light at the top.

Harry's mouth dropped open.

The entire Mesa had been invisible. They had walked right up to it in the dark and hadn't even noticed.

"Wow . . ." He and Neville murmured together. They shared a wry glance.

With a final 'pop' and wriggle of the boulder, it transformed into a spacious, well-lit lift, similar in style to the lifts in the Ministry that Harry had traveled down over the summer on the way to his hearing.

There weren't any buttons on the inside of the lift. As soon as all three of them entered, the door snapped shut and the lift began rattling and grinding as it moved up the sides of the mesa.

"When was the lift built?" Asked Neville, alarmed as the lift continued jerking upwards.

"1931" Replied the Major, an amused smile on her face. "But we service it regularly."

"How did people get up to the top of the Mesa before the lift?" asked Harry, curious. "Brooms?"

"I can't say," admitted the Major as the lift shuddered to a halt. "Come along."

Harry and Neville followed Major Montgomery out of the elevator, pacing empty gravel paths through the darkness as they passed buildings, dark and ghostly silent in the morning air.

The march across the desert had taken several minutes and the sky had begun to lighten, a rosy glow stretching from one horizon as they reached their destination, another low building that was remarkable only in its being an exact replica of all the others. But at this one Major Montgomery stopped, opened the door with her wand, and then ushered the two boys inside.

Harry stopped dead after only two paces. Whatever room they had just entered was pitch black, with only the pre-dawn light that filtered from the door behind him to illuminate the scene.

Before Harry's eyes had a chance to adjust to the intense gloom, he heard a quiet, confident voice.

"Welcome back, Major. You'll find everything much the same as you left it."

Harry had his wand out, fast as lightning, pointing at the owner of the voice. The words were innocuous, but something about the voice made the hairs on the back of Harry's neck prickle. It reminded him, somehow, of a snake slithering over dead leaves.

"Lumos!"

The cone of light from his wand illuminated a mundane office complete with filing cabinets and a metal desk, all in tones of beige and olive green. Behind the desk sat an exceptionally pale young man with red hair, dark eyes and a bemused expression. The windows behind the man's desk were covered with black paper, which explained the room's deep gloom.

"Mr. Smith, I presume. That was very quick. Perhaps you'll do well here", he commented drily, apparently unimpressed by the fact that Harry was pointing his wand at him. He had rather less emotion in his voice than the average person complimenting Harry's wristwatch.

Harry slowly lowered his wand, letting the cone of light fall down to the floor and throwing the man's face back into deep, underlit, shadow. Confused by his reaction and the young man's level gaze, he asked the first question that sprang to his mind.

"Why did you call me Mr. Smith? That's not my name."

Harry was still wary and tense. There was something about the man's gaze—maybe it was the deep purple shadows under his eyes that had remained even in the full light of Harry's spell?—that set him on edge.

A drop of an amused smile appeared on his face like a stain. "You are both hunted men, are you not? It would not be prudent to have your true names in our school records." He pulled out two manila folders and slid them across the desk.

"You'll find everything in order inside, Major."

She picked up the folders and tucked them under her arm. "Mr. Harry Smith." She said staring pointedly at him before she turned and fixed Neville with a look. "Mr. Frank Little, this is Mr. Benedict, our head of camp security, nurse, and my personal secretary." Her eyes darted to Harry's tense face and lit wand and the young man's face. "He prefers the dark and the quiet. Come along, we have some things to discuss before the rest of the camp wakes up for breakfast."

Harry and Neville followed into her office. Neville quietly offered a "It was nice meeting you, Mr. Benedict," as he passed and received a (to Harry's ear, slightly amused) "Likewise, I'm sure, Mr. Little" in reply.

The Major's office—for this was obviously the Major's office—was neat and tidy, much like Mr. Benedict's antechamber. The walls were lined with olive green filing cabinets, and on top of them there were several photographs that containing everything from landscapes (Harry saw a jungle, a misty mountain range, a desert mesa) to photographs of the Major shaking hands with people in formal dress—some obviously wizarding, some military, some muggle. An American flag was the only decoration on the walls.

As Harry fully entered the room, his eyes were drawn to a glass case, like Aunt Petunia had used to display the fine china that was too nice to actually use. Inside, resting on faded purple cushions with gold tassels on the corners, were a wand made of dark wood, a twisted and blackened piece of metal, and a letter of yellowed parchment with dark script running over it. Harry wasn't sure what to make of this; the Major didn't seem like the kind of woman to keep things for sentimental reasons, especially something as ugly as that small, burnt bit of metal.

"Take a seat." the Major waved her wand and a pair of straight backed wooden chairs appeared before her desk.

"As Mr. Benedict informed you, you two are here under assumed names and identities. Mr. Potter, you're here as Harry Reed Smith, Mr. Longbottom, you're here as Frank Neville Little who prefers to go by his middle name. Both of you are homeschooled halfbloods from Ipswitch. Homeschooled students take yearly exams called the Comprehensive Annual Tests—despite your abysmal potions grades, you both scored exceptionally well on the Defense portion of your test administered by Professor Lupin, and were subsequently invited to Mesa Galgani. Any questions so far?"

Neville's ears turned pink. "Um, Ma'am, my memory isn't very good. How bad would it be if I, um, introduced myself as Neville Longbottom or didn't respond to a 'Little' in class or something?"

"I suggest you don't, Mr. Little," she replied flatly.

Neville wilted under her gaze.

The Major's clipped, precise tone softened a little. "I realize that because the two of you essentially grew up in a war zone, and both of you have lost family and loved ones to the war, that everything feels very close. Here, though, the war is something that you read about in a newspaper—and let me assure you that most fifteen year olds don't read the newspaper. Your Lord Voldemort'" Neville twitched a little at the name, but Harry wasn't surprised that she wasn't afraid of the name "has no idea where you are, and the whole world to look for you in."

She looked down and pages through some pages in her folder before passing a map forward to them.

"There are five barracks here, lettered A through E. Your barracks are where you'll be sleeping and your lives will be made easier or more difficult based on the success or failures of your barracksmates. The weekly leader of your barracks is elected Monday morning after breakfast in just a few hours. Normally," she pressed her lips together in an uncanny impression of one of Professor McGonagall's common expressions "I'd tell you to speak to your Barracks leader, Cynthia Richmond, but given that it's Monday and the . . . conditions in Barracks E right now, I would ask for Glory Chestnut. Breakfast should be starting in just a few minutes, so I would make your way there now,"

Harry and Neville left with directions on how to find the dining hall.


	3. The Students of Barracks E

Harry's footsteps were as light as the sky outside as he and Neville left Major Montgomery's office. Since Dumbledore's phoenix patronus appeared at their breakfast table at Grimmauld Place, Harry hadn't even had one moment to consider the fact that he was as free of Voldemort as he could possibly have been. Now that he had, an excited frisson of happiness bubbled up inside him. Voldemort was thousands of miles away—and no one knew where he, Harry, was.

He could be 'Just Harry' like he always wanted.

Harry drew a shaky breath, a smile growing on his face. No one at the Mesa would even know that he was Harry Potter! There would be no Boy-Who-Lived nonsense. There would be no glances at his forehead, no requests for autographs, no congratulatory handshakes from strangers. Finally Harry opened his mouth and let out a great cathartic ha! of laughter.

Neville eyed him sideways, fidgeting. Harry noticed that the golden light from the rising sun revealed red in Neville's brown hair that Harry hadn't seen before.

"Something up, Neville?"

A bashful grin shot across his face.

"Look!" he said abruptly, pointing a finger.

The camp was beginning to wake up now. More of the windows of the barracks they passed were lit, and some had steam from morning showers fogging the glass. But Neville's finger pointed to a lone building, larger than the others, with light streaming from the windows. Just one word appeared on the sign adorning the front door:

Cafeteria

Harry and Neville's stomachs rumbled at the same time. Mrs. Weasley's breakfast had been hours ago.

The building they entered was (unsurprisingly, for a wizarding building) much larger on the inside than the outside would have indicated. The huge room was packed with small round tables, each large enough to fit five or six people, and it was filled to the rafters with the smell of breakfast wafting from the far side.

Making their way down the room, Harry could see a long table piled with every breakfast food imaginable and staffed by handful of sleepy looking students, yawning and shuffling in place. Harry and Neville made their way down the line, helping themselves until they got to the end and they were confronted by an tall, wiry man with a shocks of black hair peeking out from underneath his white chef's hat.

He gave them both a big smile as he settled an enormous platter of bacon on the table. "Good morning gentleman, I'm Cookie, the chef here. Are you the two new students from Barracks E?"

"Yes, sir," they responded politely.

He laughed. "Sir! I like it! But feel free to call me Cookie if you want, everyone else does. I'm sorry about your situation here, but we're going to be working a lot together over the next few months and I thought I'd say 'hi'. We—"

"Cookie!" a voice shouted from a doorway which obviously led into the kitchen. "Help! It's burning!"

"Sorry, gotta go! Have a nice day!" Cookie dashed off through the door, leaving Harry and Neville to look bemusedly at each other.

Once they were seated at a table, Harry asked "What do you think he meant by "I'm sorry about your situation? Do you think he knows . . ?"

Neville shook his head, leaning in close. "Dumbledore and Major Montgomery said the staff might know, but it sounded to me like he was saying something else—"

Neville was interrupted by a loud crash as a student clattered their tray of food down on the opposite side of the table. She had huge, frizzy hair, tawny skin and a manic, high-energy gleam in her eye.

She reached her hand across the table and shook  
Harry's and then Neville's hand firmly, staring them each in the eye as if  
trying to gain some secret intelligence. "I'm Gloriana Chestnut. Are you Harry and Frank?" They nodded.

"I prefer Neville, actually." Neville swallowed.  
"Okay good. You can call me Glory." She sat, shoving her untouched tray of food to the side before leaning over dramatically and asking "How do you feel about tyranny?"

Neville swallowed nervously and looked to Harry, who responded slowly. "I'm opposed to tyranny, I guess."

Gloriana's ensuing grin split her face like a bolt of lightning, at once brilliant and terrifying, lasting only moments before it was replaced with a gloomier expression.

"Well, Barracks E is in the grip of some of the worst tyranny I have ever seen." She said this in complete earnest, her first thumping the small table hard enough that their utensils rattled.

They were immediately joined by two more girls, the first a girl with dark hair pinned up on her head, glinting dark eyes and a mischievous expression who introduced herself as "Maggie Jape, of course" and a shorter, round-faced girl with blonde hair, black at the roots, who shook their hands with a "Della Kwan".

Glory leaned forward and spoke in a conspiratorial stage whisper so they could hear her above the general din of the cafeteria.

"So, everyone, this is Harry and Frank, who goes by Neville. Harry and Neville are here to join our noble alliance against Cynthia's tyranny." Despite her grandiose words, she sounded completely serious. Harry smiled a little, reminded of Hermione.  
The girl who had introduced herself as Maggie Jape rolled her eyes and snorted. "Alliance," she rolled the word in her mouth, slowly, mockingly touching every syllable. "Tyranny. We're talking about chore allotments because of an election of our ten person class president. Maybe we could talk about this with a teensy bit less drama?"

Glory slammed her fist resolutely on the table, causing the plates and cups to clatter noisily. "No. Tyranny is the unjust exercise of power wherever it is found." Glory glared fiercely around at the rest of the table. Personally, Harry wasn't about to argue with her. "No matter the scale, we have a leader who gave retribution to her constituents because they voted against her!"

Neville raised his hand tentatively. "Um . . . what kind of retribution are we talking about?"

Maggie shrugged. "We have chores to do—cleaning the barracks common room, for example, or assisting the cook or working in the greenhouse. It's not a big deal, maybe 60 minutes per day per person if everyone contributes. The barracks captain's job is to make sure the jobs get done. Most of the other barracks captains ask for volunteers and if they can't get volunteers for a job they assign people, but they do it so that no one has to do the worst jobs all the time, because then they'd get voted out the next week."

"But . . . that's not working here?" Harry asked.

"Well, last week there were only eight of us. The three of us," she gestured around the table "voted for Glory, but Cynthia and her four cronies voted for her and she won, five to three."

"Well, now, if Harry and I vote against her, we're even. So we should be good."

Glory scowled. "It would if this were a sensible system, it might have some form of run-off vote, or ranked-choice voting -"

Maggie spoke up, interrupting her. "'In the event of a tie, if either of the claimants for the captaincy held the position the previous week, they are the winner.'" she said this in a resigned monotone that strongly implied she was quoting from the textbook.

"So even if all of us," Harry gestured at the table "Vote against her, she's still going to be captain."

"Yup." agreed Maggie, popping the p at the end. "And because the three of us," she gestured to the two other girls "tried to 'thwart her ambition'" her eye-roll was Weasley-Twin-worthy in its disdain "we'll basically just be doing all the chores . . . forever."

Now Harry realized what was going on. Even if they all voted together against Cynthia, all that would happen would be that the ten person chore roster would be divided into five parts rather than into three.

"Why, hello there," a voice called, saccharine cheerful with a slight drawl.

Harry turned in his seat to see the newcomer. She was pretty and blonde, with intense blue eyes and the kind of smile that was used to getting its way.

"I'm Cynthia Richmond, the barracks captain from Barracks E." She reached out her hand daintily and Harry shook it; it was like shaking a dishrag.

"Harry, er, Smith," said Harry with a sidelong glance at Neville. "And this is Frank."

"Neville," corrected Neville and he too shook her proffered hand.

"Welcome to the Mesa! I'm so glad we've had a chance to meet!" Cynthia gushed. "I'm sure it's so interesting being from England and all. You want to join us over there?" she pointed where four more students were hunched over their breakfast trays. Suspiciously on cue, they all turned and the waved, except for one boy in a black t-shirt on the far side of the table, who needed to be nudged into it by his neighbor.

"We were just getting to know each other," Harry gestured around the table, his voice slightly cool.

Neville spoke up. "Maybe we could join you for lunch?"

Cynthia shook her head. "I'm afraid we'll need to speak before then. You see, the weekly votes for Barracks captain are first thing, when we have Transfiguration with Mr. Tempin, and we need to make sure that y'all are on the winning side of things." Harry was liking her less and less by the second and was feeling unpleasantly reminded of his conversation with Draco Malfoy on the train.

She leaned in conspiratorially. "Just between us," she went on in a de soto whisper so everyone at the table could hear her. "There are two kinds of people in this world. Winners, and . . ." her hand flittered vaguely toward her table of smiling, waving sycophants as she paused delicately "well, everyone else." She gave Harry and his new friends a once over with her eyes. "And I just wanted to know what kind of person you are."

She placed her hand on Harry's arm in an almost possessive manner; and tilted her head to look at him through her lashes.

Before Harry had a chance to respond at all, Neville burst out. "I think we can tell the wrong sort for ourselves, thanks."

Neville was, not, as a rule, an angry person. Even when he had offered to fight Ron, Harry and Hermione at the end of first year, he had been more defiant than angry. The only time Harry had seen Neville truly angry was once in second year when Lavender Brown tried to steal honking geraniums out of the greenhouses to grow in her dorm room. Neville had given her a fiery ten minute row on how stealing a honking geranium from the magically-controlled greenhouse was the same thing as killing it and what kind of idiot killed beautiful flowers?

This was angrier than Harry had ever seen him. He half-rose from his chair, his grey eyes flashing as he glared darkly at Cynthia, his hands was clenched around the table so tightly the tendons on his arms and hands stood out. n

Cynthia looked taken aback but quickly smoothed her features as her hand left Harry's arm. "Well, if you change your mind, voting is at 8:30 in Transfiguration. I'll see you there." She waggled her fingers in a simpering wave and sauntered back to her friends.

The whole tabled watched her go, Neville still looking murderous. Harry gave him a gentle elbow. "You alright there, mate?" Neville turned to look at Harry, then flushed, embarrassed and looking much more like himself.

"Yeah, I'm sorry for . . you know, speaking for you. If you want to . . . you know, follow her, don't let me stop you."

Harry laughed. "And deny myself the chance to make a fool of myself in the kitchen with my new friends?"

A few minutes later they were filing out of the Cafeteria to go to their first class of the morning.

Harry walked next to the Maggie and asked "So, is Cynthia really as awful as she seems? She reminded of me a guy from England. Rich, always get what he wants, talks about his father all the time . . ."

Maggie snorted. "Yeah, that sounds like her. She had to give a speech when we had the election last week, and her speech was, and I quote." Her made air quotes with her fingers as her voice took on a dull monotone. "'My name is Hyacynthia Richmond, yes, one of those Richmonds. Tee hee'" (Maggie actually said the words 'tee hee', her voice dripping with caustic disdain.) "My Father is Vice-President of MACUSA, so when I say I can divide chores and allotments fairly, you know I mean it. It's in my blood."

Harry shuddered with a grim laugh of recognition. "Does she ever say 'When my father hears about this?'"

"Not yet, but she seems to have everything pretty well in hand with the rigged elections and all. Maybe we can off-put her with a 5-5 vote for barracks captain."

The air was noticeably warmer since dawn had passed over breakfast and the sun, a red orb huger and hotter than it had ever been in Scotland, seemed to have stained the entire landscape a deep red-brown. Wild, craggy peak in every imaginable shape sprung up from the dusty ground that was carpeted in hillocks of tenacious scrubby bush. Harry couldn't imagine how hot the sun would be when overhead.

The transfiguration classroom had a very comfortable, lived-in feel. Knick knacks, flower pots overflowing with vines and ferns, and animal skeletons littered every horizontal surface in the room; every wall was covered in charts comparing types of transfiguration or diagrams showing humans half-way transformed into animals. As Harry sat down at a desk between Neville and Della, Della leaned over and whispered "Mr. Tempin is my favorite. He's the best teacher here by far."

Mr. Kuma Tempin was a heavyset man with dark, shoulder length hair and penny-red skin. He stood easily in front of the room in muggle blue jeans, a red flannel shirt rolled up to the elbows and scuffed cowboy boots. He smiled slightly as he surveyed the students.

"Alright everyone, settle down." His voice was light and friendly, but it had the crisp edge that some teachers had—like McGonagall or Snape—that made you think that he wouldn't be a teacher to cross. After he introduced himself to Harry and Neville (and had them introduce themselves to the class) he quickly got to business.

"One of my first responsibilities as your home room teacher is to host the weekly election. Last week, short of our full number, we elected Ms. Richmond as your barracks captain. Congratulations again, by the way."

Cynthia beamed at him as her friends filled the room with a smattering of applause. Harry noticed Glory had her arms folded in front of her chest, hands clenched.

"We hold these elections weekly, so everyone has a chance to re-evaluate their vote and choose another candidate if you believe the chores and allotments aren't being allocated fairly," It was so slight that Harry almost believed he imagined it, but Mr. Tempin's gaze flashed for a moment toward the side of the room where Cynthia and her friends were sitting.

"Ms. Richmond, as the sitting Barracks Captain, if you'd like to say a few words before votes are cast, do so now."

Cynthia stood up, her megawatt smile turned up to full blast. "I'm Hyacynthia Richmond, and I promise to continue the excellent work I did last week. If you enjoyed how I divided things, this week you can continue to expect more of the same." She gave that same little, faux-cheerful finger wave and flounced back to her desk.

"Thank you Cynthia. Is anyone else standing for election?" There was a smile on his face and he was already looking at Glory.

"I am Mr. Tempin." Glory stood up, marched to the front of the room, then faced them all with a fierce expression on her face.

"Everyone here knows that this entire election is a farce. People in power delayed the entry of two students into this barracks, then hand-picked the students to make it impossible for a particular person to lose the first election of the year," She said all of this very calmly and matter-of-factly.

"This is a brain-melting level of corruption for what is, essentially, a class president seat for a ten person class and I personally find it abhorrent." Next to Harry, Maggie grinned and gave a discreet thumbs-up sign as Glory took a deep breath. "Additionally, I find the fact that our Barracks Captain assigns chores only to their opponents anti-democratic, foolish, short-sighted and cruel. If I am elected, I will fairly and without bias assign chores and reward honors. Thank you."

Harry and his new friends clapped.

They took a few minutes to vote in an area of the classroom roped off with heavy velvet curtains, but the results were never in any real doubt.

Mr. Tempin announced the results of the election in an even voice, but couldn't keep the slight edge out of it. "And the vote is five to five, and the tie goes to the winner of the previous weeks' election, Ms. Cynthia Richmond. Congratulations. Now, let's get down to the business of transfiguration . . . "

The lesson—mostly review, for Harry—concerned inanimate to animate transfiguration—turning things into animals. Harry and Neville had studied that inanimate to animate transfigurations under McGonagall, but they'd never had a lesson about how to use them in combat situations before.

"Imagine you're in England, visiting one of our friends here," Tempin nodded at Harry and Neville "and you're attacked by the Death Eaters . . ."

Harry was struck her by Mr. Tempin's blase tone; certainly none of his professors, with the possible exception of Lockhart, would have spoken about Death Eaters so casually. But, he supposed it was like the Major said. Death Eaters, Voldemort, they were just . . . stuff you'd read in the news.

". . . name an object that you'd probably have on hand, one animal you could transfigure it into, and one way that you could use that animal to fend off our heinous kidnappers."

Cynthia's hand shot into the air.

"I can transfigure wolves, which would be useful in a fight." It came out as more of a boast than a hypothetical.

Mr. Tempin tapped the chalkboard with his wand and the words "Wolves" and "Fight" appeared.

"Anyone else?"

The next few suggestions were similar. Two of Cynthia's friends—a big, curly-headed bloke named Marty and a narrow-faced, dark-eyed girl named Kate suggested transfiguring a hyena or a leopard. Apollo, Cynthia's boyfriend, announced that he could transfigure Lions. Mr. Tempin raised his eyebrows skeptically at that one.

"What would you use to transfigure a Lion? That's quite a big animal. A female might be up to three hundred pounds, a big male more like five or six hundred."

Apollo drooped slightly before rallying. "Um, lawn mower? a motorcycle?"

Tempin's eyebrows, if anything, rose even higher. "A standard push lawn mower isn't going to be big enough. I doubt even Albus Dumbledore himself could manage it. And turning a motorcycle or a riding lawnmower, hundreds of complex parts with computers and gasoline . . ." he shook his head.

"I can do it!" Apollo boasted, looking both nervous and boastful at the same time.

"I'm not doubting you," allowed Mr. Tempin, a small smile playing on his face. "Just . . . preparing to be impressed, that's all. Can anyone else think of something that might be in Harry's house that you could transfigure into a lion? Something closer to the right size than a push mower and less technically complex than a motorcycle?"

Harry raised his hand. "A couch would be about the right size, although I'm not sure whether I'd be more scared of death eaters or of my Aunt if I turned the sofa into a wild animal," he joked.

"A secondary concern, I think, if dark wizards are coming for you." Mr. Tempin chuckled.

"But, Mr. Tempin," Glory had raised her hand "Isn't it really easy to get rid of a transfigured or conjured animal? It's not hard to do enough damage to an animal to revert the transfiguration—a simple cutting charm, or dropping it after a wingardium leviosa . . . or you could simply finite it."

"Excellent point, Glory." Mr. Tempin tapped the board and all words "fight" turned into "Ambush/Divert".

"As Glory said, it's trivial to dispel or destroy a transfigured or conjured animal. The only way a mundane animal is any real threat to a witch is with an ambush, if the dark witch in question doesn't have enough time to bring her wand to bear." He tapped the word "ambush" with his wand. "Alternatively you could use your animals to divert or distract enough attention to escape. Now that we know that, can anyone think of any other ideas?"

Harry raised his hand. "You could transfigure a garden hose into a snake. No, I have a better idea, cut a garden hose into pieces with a severing charm, then make a bunch of snakes. They're small and quiet, but you could make them poisonous . . . "

"That's an excellent idea. Let's talk for a second about transfiguring venomous snakes. Harry, for future reference, something is poisonous is when you bite something and you get sick, venomous is when that animal bites you and you get sick . . . "

The class passed quickly. Mr. Tempin had a flair for talking about things in an offbeat or even funny way that made Harry think about Transfiguration differently than when McGonagall taught it. He was less strict than McGonagall, but just as encouraging, and worked to pull every idea from the students before bringing his own thoughts to the front.

After transfiguration was charms. Madame Chung-an ancient chinese woman with a posh accent even Malfoy couldn't have turned his nose up at-wore stiff, embroidered black robes, and a strict demeanor (especially compared to the genial and excitable Flitwick), but she smiled when people performed a spell correctly and assured Harry and Neville that if they had any questions, the door to her cabin was open until curfew.

After charms was lunch. Carrying his food to the table where he could see his friends sitting, Harry couldn't help but notice their dispirited mood. Maggie was picking at her food listlessly with a fork, her eyes downcast. Delia had her head resting on her hand, staring into space, and even the usually irrepressible Glory was fidgeting and staring into space.

After an awkward, silent minute in which no one said anything, Harry finally asked "So, what's after lunch?"

Maggie sighed. "Chores. Lots of chores. Weeding the greenhouses, helping Cookie, cleaning the dorms, stuff like that."

"What? Aren't we supposed to be learning advanced defense here?" After four years being taught his favorite subject by a series of frauds (Lupin being the notable exception) the prospect of being taught defense by a real teacher had been an exciting prospect.

"The afternoons four days a week are supposed to be for dueling practice, supervised by the Defense Instructor." Glory agreed, picking at her meatloaf. "Chores are supposed to be done during them, with the idea that you should have one day a week doing weeding or whatever, and then you can spend the rest of the time at dueling practice, then do your homework after dinner. But because the five of us" she gestured at the table "are doing chores for ten people, we get to spend the afternoons washing dishes" She sighed, looking gloomy and defeated.

"What are we doing today?" asked Neville an optimistic, all-for-the-best note creeping into his voice.

"I'm weeding today," Della groaned. "I hate weeds. Dandy Lions and prick weeds and . . . urgh," she made a face, shuddering.

"I wouldn't mind weeding, if you want to take whatever I was supposed to be doing instead." Neville offered.

Delia brightened immediately. "We put you down as cleaning the cabin. It's the easiest, you know, to help you settle in for the first day." She scooched her chair closer, ducking her head and lowering her voice. "You're not supposed to use magic to clean the cabins—you're not supposed to use magic to do any of the chores at camp, really—but people do anyway, and it only takes a few minutes, scourgifying the bathroom and picking up Cynthia and Apollo's junk."

"I guess I'd prefer weeding too," Harry added. He'd cleaned the Dursley's bathroom more than enough, thanks all the same. At least he'd be with Neville.

After lunch, a now cheerful Della led them to a small wooden hut labeled "Greenhouses" that was about the size of the Weasley's broom shed.

"Have fun with Lou," Delia said with a cheeky grin, leaving Harry and Neville to themselves.

Neville and Harry gave each other matching what-was-that-about? looks then entered the small shed and clambered down the narrow, spiraling staircase inside.

It was a long way down the staircase, but it eventually opened into a narrow, dark hallway.

"Lumos," Harry muttered, using the wandlight to illuminate the corridor—which looked to have been carved from the rock of the mesa itself—on a narrow door on the far end with light peeking out from underneath.

Passing through the doorway, Harry and Neville both had to stop and blink as their eyes adjusted from the darkness. Brilliant sunlight streamed from the ceiling and the walls, making it look like midday on a tropical island rather than 200 feet in the middle of solid rock.

"Good good!" a voice cackled. Harry leapt back in shock as a ghost popped out of the ground from right underneath him, making his legs feel as if someone had poured icy water on them.

"You boys here to weed m'yearth? Always lookin' for fresh yacks! This way, this way, this way!" The ghost darted away, laughing and muttering as he shot this way and that.

Harry didn't know if he'd ever seen a ghost in such bright light; sometimes he looked more like the shimmer of a heatwave than the nearly-solid translucent blue of the Hogwarts Ghost. The ghost was dressed in a floppy, broad-brimmed hat, a checked shirt, high leather boots and a striped vest. He looked, to Harry's inexperienced eye, like someone from an old cowboy movie.

Harry moved to follow the ghost, but stopped after a few steps. Neville hadn't moved.

"You okay mate?" Harry asked. Neville's expression was one of slack-jawed shock.

"Look at this place . . ." Neville breathed. Harry took a moment to look, not at the ghost, but at the room.

The room they stood in was simply cavernous, bigger than the quidditch stadium at Hogwarts, although maybe not quite so high. It was packed with rows upon rows of raised planting beds. The beds didn't seem to be in any particular order; right next to them was a bed filled with pineapples, and next to that, four fully grown oak trees, forty feet high, casting dappled shade on the ground of this cave. Aa few of the beds showed only damp, black soil, but most of the beds were simply overflowing with every type of imaginable greenery, ferns, maize, Devil's Snare, flutterby bushes, honking daffodils . . . and those were just the beds within reach.

The Greenhouses at Hogwarts were massive glass structures but even combined they didn't reach a tenth of the size of this cavern.

"I've never even heard of something like this." Said Neville, running his fingers over the wood of the nearest raised bed, brushing the leaves of the ferns that spilled into the path between the beds. "I mean, you can make a room like this, with air freshening charms and sunlight spells but . . . I've never seen anyone do anything like this underground, or so . . . so . . .so . . ." he made wild, expansive hand gestures until Harry supplied "big."

"Yes!" Neville agreed. "And the air in here . . ." he took a deep breath, dramatically filling his lungs. Harry copied him and could see what Neville meant; it smelled fresh and damp, filled with new things and possibility. It was certainly a relief after the hot, dry air up on the mesa.

"Addle pots!" bellowed the ghost some hundred yards in front of them, almost completely obscured by the mass of greenery crowding the space between the beds. "Come along!"

The cowboy ghost led them to a random intersection of beds that looked (to Harry) no different from any other spot. The beds in the area were filled with flutterby bushes in every shade, the butterfly-like flowers in every color of red, yellow, orange and pink all waving and fluttering. Neville smiled, brushing his fingers against a particularly enormous purple flower quivering on one of the bushes."You yacks are slower than molasses in January," accused the ghost. "I'm Lou, and this here is my yearth. There's scads of dandy-lions and I want you to beef 'em. Sabby?"

Neville and Harry exchanged confused glances. "Er . . . what? I'm sorry." Asked Harry.

Lou shook his head sadly. "Dumber than the governor of Massachusetts." He muttered. He knelt, gesturing at the dirt underneath the quivering flutterby bushes. "Dandy Lions are having a shindy with these flutterby bushes. Garden 'em out. Got it?"

"Yes, thanks." Said Neville, rolling up his sleeves. "How do we find you once we're done?"

"Oh, just give a holler. I'll find you. No shoalin', you two." Lou waggled his finger admonishingly before drifting away, and Harry and Neville set to the task of weeding the flutterby bushes. Harry had pruned Flutterby bushes before, but the Hogwarts greenhouses were much too well behaved to require much weeding.

Dandy-lions looked just like the weedy dandelions that Harry was familiar with from long afternoons in the Dursley's garden, except they tried to bite you as you pulled them up. Harry received several deep gouges from their sharp teeth before he pulled his wand surreptitiously out of his pocket and began stunning them with a whispered "stupefy".

Harry thought his pile of weeds was progressing well before he glanced over at Neville's (much larger) pile. Neville's technique was much different; he reached out tenderly with one finger and gently stroked the weed's fuzzy head, crooning about how handsome they were until, just like a cat, they began nuzzling affectionately against his outstretched finger. As they purred contentedly, he reached with his other hand and gently freed them from the soil, removing grains of dirt from their roots with a fingernail.

Harry watched, fascinated as Neville used his broad nails to weed the Dandy-Lions. Harry's fingernails were narrow pink ovals, and he had a lot of experience with them in all states of repair. Weeding and cleaning and cooking at the Dursleys meant that he'd seen his fingernails cracked, dirty, split, bleeding and hanged. Neville's nails never looked like that. They weren't narrow, like his; instead, they were round and flat, stretching from one side of his finger to the other, not leaving any flesh to either side to get dirty or hanged. They weren't delicate pink, either, but a sturdy almost opaque white.

Neville looked up and caught Harry's gaze. His eyebrows knit together. He paused, standing straight and ran the back of his hand over his sweaty brow. The movement lifted his shirt enough that Harry caught a glimpse of a narrow band of Neville's stomach. Harry's brain noted (without any directive from Harry himself) that it was quite trim.

"Something up, mate?"

"W-what?" Harry asked, stammering at having been caught staring. "Um, no, nothing. Just . . . admiring your technique," he extemporized wildly.

Neville grinned down at his pile of content, uprooted dandy-lions, obviously pleased. "Yeah, they're not so bad, once you know what they want." His gaze fell on Harry's pile of stunned weeds. "Yeah, stunning them works too, but they transplant better if they go willingly. Some people," he rolled his eyes disbelievingly "simply yank them out by their roots." Harry tucked his bleeding hands awkwardly into his back pockets.

"So, er, you're going to transplant them? Are they useful for anything?"

Neville shook his head. "Not really. Some hair care products, like Sleek-Eezy's, things like that. It's not like they're rare or anything." He gestured his hands at the rows of flower beds, indicating the nearly endless supply. "But they grow quite happily bunched together in flower pots if they're in a place someone can see them. I don't think living things should be discarded just because you can't see an immediate use for them."

Harry—thinking of long nights spent in a lonely cupboard—could only agree.


	4. Blood and Stone

After several hours plucking dandylions from the planting beds, Neville and Harry returned up the staircase to the top of the mesa, carrying several extra-large flower pots stuffed to the rim with vicious transplanted weeds. The sun was lower in the sky as they made their way down the well-kept gravel paths, the identical grey-green buildings casting long purple shadows on the dusty ground.

They turned a corner and were met with an open, circular space. Dozens of  
students, bunched in small groups of three or four encircled the edge. There was an excited frisson to the crowd, and Harry could hear some students shouting from inside the circle—were those incantations? Harry was sure he heard someone shout "stupefy" over the excitement of the crowd.

Harry and Neville made their way toward the crowd in unspoken agreement.

As they edged past the other onlookers, two other students a boy and a girl came into view. They were dueling, or at least, lobbing spells at one another. It took only a moment for Harry—who had little dueling experience himself—to decide that these two students weren't very good. They barely moved, standing in place like rooted trees. Their accuracy was poor—of the first five spells Harry saw, four of them struck a transparent, magical barrier surrounding the dueling circle and the fifth was a failed attempt to summon a snake.

Finally, the girl landed a tickling jinx and the boy, overcome with laughter, fell to the ground. An older woman with silver streaks running through her dark ponytail waved her wand to dispel the barrier. She reminded Harry a lot of Major Montgomery; she had the look of someone used to their instructions being obeyed. Her eyes were dark and sharp, her nose beakish and her mouth bookended by deep frown lines.

"Starr! Cumberland!" she barked, her dark eyes flashing. "Thank you, that'll do. If neither of you are hurt, make your way to the edge of the circle and we'll watch another pair—"

She caught sight of Harry and Neville standing in circle.  
Her expression reminded Harry of a bird of prey—calculating  
and predatory, as if she were simply waiting for someone to show weakness so  
she could swoop in for the kill.

"I'm Captain Luther, the defense instructor." She stated. "You must be Smith  
and Little."

The two boys nodded.

"Good. You'll have theoretical defense tomorrow, and I wanted to-"

"Mrs. Luther?" a saccharine voice interrupted. The captain closed her eyes for  
a moment before turning to face the source of the voice.

"Yes, Richmond?" Mrs. Luther's voice had an unmistakable air of displeasure to it. If Snape's voice had sounded like that, Harry would

"Now that Harry and Neville are done with their chores, I was hoping that we could have a chance to see our new English friends duel."

"In my class, Richmond, I am accustomed to giving instructions, including on which students duel, in which order, and against whom they duel." She gave Cynthia a long, level look. "Is that clear?"

"Perfectly, Mrs. Luther." Cynthia seemed entirely unabashed.

"Thank you for volunteering, in that case. You and Beauregard against Smith and Little." Harry and Neville set down their flower-pots full of chirping weeds and made their way to the center of the ring. Harry ignored Neville tripping over his own feet.

Harry squared off against his opponents. Cynthia, opposite Neville, looked radiant, not a hair out of place after what must have been hours of hot, dusty dueling practice. Apollo Beauregard—a black, handsome bloke, who was, according to Delia, Maggie and Glory, dating Cynthia—looked equally at ease opposite Harry. Harry pretended not to notice as, next to him, Neville clumsily shuffled his feet, looking sweaty and disheveled after hours digging through the dirt.

"Bow." Captain Luther ordered.

Harry bent at the waist, tilting his neck to keep an eye on his opponent. He didn't trust Cynthia or anyone in her little clique.

"Begin!" Mrs. Luther's voice cracked.

In front of him, Apollo turned into a sideways stance—to present a smaller target Harry immediately realized, moving hurriedly to copy. Apollo and Cynthia both cried "Stupefy!". Harry's slashed his wand forward and upward as he shouted "protego"!

The red beam of Apollo's spell splashed harmlessly against the silvery, translucent shield that appeared in front of Harry, throwing a gout of red sparks. Harry dispelled the shield, and Apollo looked shocked as Harry took a step forward through its rippling remnants. Harry jabbed his wand forward.  
"Expelliarmus!" He could tell the red light would strike Apollo before the spell even landed.

Harry saw Neville collapse out of the corner of his eye. Harry whirled around, taking three big steps, reaching up to grab Apollo's wand arcing toward him, while at the same time tracking toward where he knew Cynthia must be –

Suddenly stones were digging into his back and his mouth tasted like dirt.

"That was very well done, Smith." Most of Harry's vision was filled by the hawk-nose and bemused expression of Captain Luther. It was only when she offered him a hand up that he realized he was lying on the ground and he must have been stunned.

"Not many 15 year old wizards can produce a shield charm." Captain Luther said gruffly, hauling him to his feet. "You should be proud of yourself." There were murmurs of agreement from the watching crowd. "Little wasn't so lucky, I'm afraid. Cracked his head. Smith, take Little to the Infirmary and get him cleaned up."

Harry could see Neville sitting near the edge of the circle, leaning his head against the barracks behind him. Harry could see blood trickling from his temple down his cheek and thought Neville looked rather pale.

"I'm sorry, er, Captain." Harry replied, shifting his feet awkwardly under all the  
murmuring attention. "Where is the infirmary?"

Captain Luther scanned the crowd for a moment, her expression pensive. "Starr!" she barked. "Escort Smith and Little to the infirmary."

Starr was a skinny, spotty boy in black, too-big clothes, his brown bangs hanging into his eyes. Harry immediately recognized him as the boy they had seen subdued by a tickling charm. He stood from where he had folded himself in the shadows of one of the barracks and slowly began slouching his way toward them. Harry recognized him as one of the boys from Cynthia's clique.

Thanking Captain Luther, Harry crouched down by Neville. Close up he looked even worse than Harry had thought, his skin was pale and the blood trickling from a gash near his temple was smeared across one temple and cheek.

"Neville?"

Neville's eyes cracked open. "Harry. Did you win?" His voice sounded  
far away and listless.

"Nope, stunned, just like you. I got Cynthia's boyfriend's wand off him though."

Neville gave the tiniest of nods before closing his eyes, turning his head away from Harry and toward the corrugated green of the barracks. "I'm sorry I let you down."

"Couldn't have asked for a better partner." Harry disagreed, looking around. Starr had arrived, his long shadow pooling on the ground, his hands still in his pockets.

"I'm Harry, and this is Neville." Harry introduced himself, offering Starr his hand.

"Qu—, I mean Starr's fine." Starr hands snuck out from his pockets to shake. Starr's fingers were thin and delicate, the nails were bitten to the quick and covered with flakes of black nail polish.

Harry nodded to him. "He's got a concussion. That's a, er—"

Fred had given George a concussion once in Quidditch practice, although they hadn't called it a concussion and had been confused when Harry called it that. What had they called it?

"I, er, think wizards call it bludger-happy?"

Starr rolled his eyes. "It's Bludger-sick, and I know what a concussion is."

Harry nodded. "His balance is going to be worse than normal, can you get one of his sides?"

"Sure."

"Ready Neville? You've got a concussion and we're taking you to the infirmary." Neville nodded sleepily.

"One-two-THREE," Harry counted. He and Starr, each gripping one of Neville's arms, hauled him upright and, looking like entrants to a six-legged race, they half-guided, half carried Neville down the path. Neville was taller than Starr and heavier than either of them, so when he swayed drunkenly, it was all the other two boys could do to keep him upright.

After ten minutes of huffing, puffing, swaying, and swearing, Starr led them inside  
another (identical) building, this one marked "Infirmary."

Inside, each wall was lined by a row of curtained beds, just like the Hogwarts Hospital Wing. A tall, thin man in medical scrubs walked over to them. It was only as he got nearer that Harry recognized the red hair and pale skin of the Major's secretary, Adam Benedict. Harry felt that same prickle on the back of his neck as he had that morning.

Benedict's dark eyes swept over the three of them. He didn't look any better off  
than he had that morning to Harry; the dark shadows under his eyes gave him a  
haunted, hungry expression.

"I was told you'd be coming. Mr. Starr, you can head back to your Barracks, supper will begin in a few minutes. Mr. Smith, Mr. Little—" he stopped, staring, his dark eyes fixated on Neville face. It looked to Harry like he had just caught sight of Neville's injury for the first time. Benedict stared for a long moment.

Then he turned his head away and continued like he'd never paused. "—please  
join me at this bed over here."

Starr left, and Harry waited while Benedict looked into Neville's eyes and checked the gash. He left, then quickly returned with a large, bright green bottle labeled "Concussion Concoction."

"Mr. Little, drink this. Mr. Smith, wait with Mr. Little until he can walk under his own power." He brusquely turned away for a moment, hesitating, then turning back to face them, reluctance written on his face.  
"Oh, before I forget." He drew a pale wand out of his robes. It was, Harry noticed, rather thicker than usual around the handle and narrowed almost to a point on the end. Benedict tapped Neville's head—the blood crusting around his temple, cheek and eye disappeared. Benedict tapped again and the gash on Neville's temple gash closed, as if it had never been there.

"Good evening, gentlemen." Benedict nodded to each of them in turn, then  
hurried away. Harry could swear he heard a relieved gasp from the man as he walked out.

"I think I prefer Madam Pomfrey's bedside manner." Harry joked, as Neville  
drained his small bottle, shuddering and sticking out his tongue.

"Well, his potions sure don't taste any better. That one tasted like Goyle left  
a sock in Snape's potion cupboard until it started to rot."

"Next time you trip, we'll nick one to use it as fertilizer. I bet those dandylions would love it." Harry teased.

"Ha ha." Neville replied. Already his eyes were brighter, his gaze more alert. "You ready to go? We should pick up the dandylions and take them to our rooms, wherever they are, and Benedict said dinner would be starting soon." His stomach rumbled; lunch had been hours ago. Neville swung his legs over the bed and tested his feet, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, testing his balance. "No worse than usual." He pronounced. They set off, turning off the lights behind them.

Ten minutes later, dandylion pots in tow, they opened the door to the low, green-grey building marked "Barracks E". Inside was a small entry hall dominated by a portrait of an enormously corpulent man with doorways leading to the left and the right.

"Greetings young sirs! Welcome to our noble and storied Barracks!" The portrait bellowed in jovial greeting.

"Er, hello." Harry responded. He was grimy and sweaty, his hands covered with bites and scratches from weeding. It had been a while since he'd felt less noble or storied.

"I'm Ephram Westerham, I founded the Mesa" the man boasted pompously, his hands resting on his straining suit-vest. "I've heard from the Major and Benedict all about you, of course." He waggled a finger. "She says you're prone to night-time wanderings. None of that now! I keep a tight watch on the hall, and then there's Mr. Benedict patrolling the mesa-top, and he's a hard one to slip in the dark, let me tell you!" He laughed, a great, pompous ho-ho!

"Thank you for the advice, sir." Said Neville, with apparent earnestness. "I'll keep a close eye on him, believe me. Let's go get cleaned up." He added to Harry. He stopped, unsure whether to go left or right.

"Excuse me, Mr. Westingham—"

"Ephram, please! 'Mr. Westingham' makes me feel old," the portrait, whose resident was born more than 150 years ago, interrupted.

"Of course, thank you sir."  
Harry had never seen Neville like this.  
Seemingly earnest, almost obsequious. Harry himself could barely refrain  
from rolling his eyes at this wind-bag of an old man. "Could you tell us where  
our things were placed?"

Ephram made a disapproving noise in the back of his throat. "Terrible business, this. Never had a barracks so divided. One room is for quarters, the other for recreation. That's the way it's been as long as I've been hanging here."

"I can see the wisdom in that, sir." Neville agreed. "But as you can see, it's been a very long day. We were looking to shower and change before dinner."

Ephram harrumphed before adding "Ms. Jape informed me your things have been moved into her room, on your left."

"Thank you, sir." Neville concluded respectfully.

There were five beds inside, all lined up against the near wall. On the other wall were a set of windows, the last of the afternoon sunlight streaming in, and a study area with chairs, tables and bookshelves. Maggie and Delia were sitting in two of the chairs, chatting and reading Witch Weekly. On the far side of the room was a door, promising a bathroom and showers.

"How was Screw-Loose Lou?" asked Maggie, smirking as she noticed them enter.

"Who?" Asked Neville distractedly, placing his flowerpot on a broad windowsill. "Oh, the ghost in the greenhouse. He was fine. Eccentric, but fine."

"Eccentric!" Maggie hooted gleefully. "That's a good word for it. Nutty ghost  
has gone b-a-n-a-n-a-s."

"Are there any other ghosts on the Mesa?" asked Harry, setting his pot next to  
Neville's. "It seems kind of . . . odd, letting a ghost run the greenhouses."

Delia shrugged. "You've seen how huge it is. He's the only one who knows  
where anything is, and he works for free. Who else could manage it? Who knows how to weed a zillion different types of edible crops anyway?"

Neville opened his mouth—probably, in Harry's opinion, to say "I could"—but then closed it, and instead asked "Why is the greenhouse so big anyway?"

"Ephram was a paranoid old coot who wanted to live on this Mesa, even if all of  
Wizardkind was laying siege outside. All the vegetarian-type-stuff we eat here is grown in the greenhouse, even the pineapples and bananas. Did you get that dusty just working in the greenhouses?" Maggie asked critically, taking in their appearance.

"We were trying to find our rooms and got drafted into a doubles duel against  
Cynthia and Apollo." Harry's mouth was turned down in a sour expression. "We lost."

Delia flipped a page on her magazine, unconcerned. "Don't worry about losing to  
them. They get everyone. Two stunners, straight to the face, every time. No one else has a chance to raise their wand."

"Harry disarmed Apollo." Neville disagreed, kneeling down to lift the lid on his trunk, rummaging around. "Didn't you, Harry?"

That got their attention. They both put down their magazines, surprised.

"Did Apollo . . . miss . . . ?" asked Delia, apparently unable to think of any other  
way Harry could have avoided being stunned by Apollo.

"I got my shield charm up and disarmed him, but Cynthia got me, same as she got Neville." He found his trunk and opened it as well.

"You can do a shield charm?" Asked Maggie, an excited undercurrent in her voice.

"Um,yeah, my friend taught me last year," admitted Harry.

"Could you teach us?" Asked Delia sharply, setting down her magazine

Harry was uncertain. Had he ever taught anyone anything?

"Yeah Harry," agreed Neville, standing up, extra clothes in hand. "Could you  
teach us?"

"Er, sure, I guess. If you guys want to . . ." Harry agreed reluctantly, the feeling that he was getting himself into something bigger than he wanted creeping over him.

"Yes! When are we going to start?" Delia clapped her hands in excitement.

"I . . . " Harry trailed off, bewildered and feeling lost. He needed Hermione for this kind of thing.

"Give him a chance to breathe, Delia!" interrupted Maggie, coming to his rescue. "He woke up in England this morning and he just got out of a duel after getting out of weeding duty after getting out of class. Guy's probably shattered. He'll be here tomorrow."

Harry sent Maggie a grateful look. "Yeah, let me take a shower and we can go to dinner together," offered Harry. "And you can catch me up on the classes that I missed." He bent over to open his trunk. Inside, right at the top, was an enormous piece of red fabric he didn't recognize. Curious, Harry stood, shaking it out.

An enormous crimson flag unfurled, a rampant gold lion prominent upon it.

"Oooh!" Delia squealed. "Is that a Gryffindor Lion? From Hogwarts?"

"Yeah, it is . . . " Harry agreed, admiring the handsome flag. A similar banner hung in the Gryffindor common room, right above the fireplace. Fred and George had draped him in it after his name had come out of the Goblet of Fire. Had they packed it? Harry didn't know.

"But I thought you were home-schooled?" asked Maggie, her dark eyes curious.

"I . . . spent most of the summer with my Godfather, my Dad's friend, and he was a Gryffindor. He probably packed it." Not a lie, he told himself. All those things were true. But failing to tell the truth to his new friends still made his stomach twist.

"Well, you go take your shower." Ordered Maggie, standing up and holding out her hands for the banner. "I know that after screw-loose Lou was done with me I  
could have showered for a week and still had earth under my fingernails. I'll hang this up somewhere. We won't be Barracks E anymore. We'll be the Lions!" she glanced around. ". . . who, I guess, happen to live in Barracks E."

"Thanks Maggie.

Fifteen minutes later, the four of them made their way to the Dining Hall. It was dusk; the red rock that extended for miles in every direction from the mesa was draped in cool purples and blues, the sun was a faint golden glimmer on the rocky horizon.

The dining hall, by contrast, was brightly lit and buzzing with excited, chattering teenagers. A line of students wrapped around one edge of the hall as the students waited for their food. Bored students stood behind a table on the far end of the room, dully ladling out food.

Harry was comparing charms with Delia and Maggie. They were  
impressed with his summoning and banishing spells, but were surprised that he  
didn't know a basic warming or cooling spell, something they said would be  
important in the desert ("It gets shit-fuck cold at night," Maggie advised with a shiver), and they were downright shocked that he hadn't even heard of the notice-me-not spell.

"But . . . you're half-bloods!" Delia sputtered. "What do you do to keep your  
muggle friends away from your magical things?"

"I don't have a lot of muggle friends." Harry and Neville said at the same time. They looked at each other and chuckled.

"I mean, outside my cousin and my aunt and uncle, who I live with" Harry explained. "I don't have a lot to do with Muggles most of the time."

Maggie's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "I thought you were homeschooled. You can't be home-schooled by muggles." Harry felt heat rise in his face at his slip-up. Of course Harry Smith should have muggle friends. Harry Smith lives in a muggle house with his muggle relatives, and is home schooled he berated himself.

"Well, my Godfather takes care of all that. I go over to his house for lessons." Harry said as casually as he could manage.

"And I live with my Gran," inserted Neville truthfully, drawing the table's attention to himself. "And she's a pureblood, so not a lot of muggles for me, either."

At that moment, the thread of the conversation got lost as they arrived at the front of the line and picking up trays, plates, silverware and cups and picking out their food from the long table. Aware that he would be likely be serving food to his fellow  
students soon, Harry tried to be as polite as possible when asking for food. Usually his "thanks" were met with a dismissive "no problem" from the other student. Half-way down the table, Harry found Glory distributing corn cobs.

"How was weeding?" she asked, using tongs to place the cob on his tray.

"Fine. Neville's a pro at plants, so the ghost left us alone, for the most part. How's kitchen duty?"

Glory shrugged. "Fine. Cookie's nice enough, you'll see. See you after dinner, yeah?"

Harry nodded his agreement, politely declining the baked beans from the blonde girl with the dark eyes standing to Glory's left. Maggie, who was behind him in line, did not politely decline the baked beans. As the blonde girl ladled beans onto Maggie's plate, her spoon hit Maggie's plate with more force than usual, causing red-brown goo to spray up Maggie's shirt.

Maggie set down her tray with a furious bang. "You did that on purpose, you stupid bitch!" Maggie snarled. Wands appeared in both their hands, pointing accusatorially.

"It was an accident, Jape" the other girl spat. "And you know everything about accidents, don't you, seeing as you're one yourself." Both girls' expressions were murderous, their wands pointed at one another.

"Hey, knock it off!" Neville, on Maggie's other side, stepped between them, pushing Maggie's hand lower. "Harry and I have been up since two o'clock in this time zone and we are exhausted. Can you put it away for one night?"

Maggie's glare continued unabated for a moment before she tucked her wand away. "You be grateful that Neville's a nice guy, Coya." and with that, she picked up her tray, turned on her heel and stormed away.

After the four of them were seated at a table—Glory was still serving corn cobs—Harry turned to face Maggie.

"What was that about?"

Maggie face was sour. "Gambol sprayed me with bean juice. Am I supposed to let her get away with that?" She withdrew her wand and scourgefied the front of her shirt.

Something clunked into place in Harry's brain. His mouth opened in surprise.

"Gambol." He said, rolling the word in his mouth. It sounded familiar. "Gambol. Gambol! But you're—"

"Jape, yeah." Maggie finished for him. "Mr. Alder Jape, of the joke shop Gambol and Jape's, is my dad. Coya's mom is Anastasia Gambol of the same."

"And you . . . what, hate each other?" Neville's brows knit together, perplexed.

"Look, what can I tell you." Maggie's temper seemed short as she smashed her peas around her plate. "My dad and her mom are best friends. She lived two doors down from me growing up. I saw her, see her, all the time, and everyone expects us to be all buddy-buddy. But Coya Gambol is an evil tarantula in a blonde wig who can NOT be trusted. You saw the bean juice!"

"We saw the bean juice." Neville agreed placidly. "But, well . . ." he looked  
to Delia to back him up, then changed tactics "Do you think that could have been an accident?"

Maggie snorted. "It could have been, but it wasn't."

Delia spoke up. "I know that we're probably not getting punished for anything Cynthia does, but we probably will get punished for something that one of us does." She glanced sidelong at Maggie. "For example, dueling one of the servers at dinner."

Maggie rolled her eyes. "Don't worry, when I settle with little-miss-Coya, it'll  
be worth it, even if I get caught." Delia opened her mouth and Maggie continued hurriedly "which obviously I will try not to do, and if I do get caught I'll take the extra punishment, okay?"

Neville shrugged. "Fine by me."

After dinner, the group made its way back to the Barracks. Harry and Neville tried half-heartedly to wade through their assigned Transfiguration work, but were nodding off until everyone mercifully agreed to an early lights out.

Harry must have been even more exhausted than he'd thought, because the second his head hit the pillow he was plunged into nightmares.

He wandered down strangely familiar, endless corridors,  
going down twists and turns, the blank walls punctuated only by blank doors, all of them locked. The last turn—and somehow he knew, in the way of dreams, that this was the last turn, the last corridor, the last locked door—when a voice interrupted him.

"Harry?"

Harry fell out of bed in surprise, knocking his head one of the bedposts. He huddled on the floor for a moment, recovering from the dream, pressing the palms of his hands against his achy, sweaty forehead. Neville hovered beside him, his pale legs ghostly in the moonlight.

"What time is it?" Harry's voice was groggy.

"Midnight, or a little after." Neville's voice was quiet sat beside and behind him on the bed. "Are you okay?"

"Never better." This most recent dream had hit him more like a dementor attack than a nightmare, leaving him shivering, his palms damp with sweat.

"Liar." There was a snort of disbelief, Neville's voice matter-of-fact rather than accusatory. Harry gripped the cold metal bed frame and tried to lever himself off the floor, but his legs didn't seem willing to support him.

"Here," The taller boy wrapped an arm around Harry's chest and heaved until they were both seated, side-by-side on the narrow bed. Harry noticed for the first time that Neville had fine, silk, pajama bottoms, but had chopped them off at the knee with a severing charm. Why had he done that?

"You looked like you were having a seizure or something . . . "

"Just a nightmare. You should go back to bed." Harry's voice was flat. Neither of them moved.

"It's . . . You-Know-Who, isn't it?"

Harry had rarely heard such calm acceptance in the other boy's voice before. In the darkness, all of Neville's nervousness seemed to have evaporated.

Harry realized with a jolt that Neville was probably right. He always felt sick after these corridor nightmares, just like he had when he'd seen Voldemort murdering that muggle before the World Cup. He made a note to tell Sirius in the morning.

"Probably," he said out loud.

"I'll fight him." Neville announced quietly. "I . . . I wanted you to know. Some people . . . you know, in pureblood circles, they say that if we don't make noise, if we don't fight him, it won't be as bad as last time . . ." he trailed off.

"But you don't think so?"

"I think that . . . my mum might have told me that I should keep my head down and stay out of it. Because that's what mums do, right? Like Ron's mum. And I don't think they'd . . . well, I'm Pureblood all the way, part of the Sacred twenty-eight and all that."

Harry had never heard of the 'Sacred 28' before, but didn't say anything.

"But . . . " Neville's voice wavered as he continued "She can't, can she? Because of what happened the last time. And they both fought, too . . . "

Harry realized that Neville's arm was still wrapped around him in a comforting sort of half-hug. Harry returned it, gripping Neville's shoulder. It felt . . . odd for Neville to be holding him, hugging him like this. But where Harry had expected awkwardness he felt only reassurance and warmth.

"I'm glad." Harry told him quietly. "No one I'd rather have on my side."

"You don't mean that," The other boy's voice was bitter.

"Sure I do."

"You don't. I'm pants at defense and even worse at transfiguration—"

"You're no worse at defense than anyone at school." Harry interrupted firmly. "Do you think Quirrel or Lockhart were going to teach you to do a proper expelliarmus—?"

"Yeah, but you can! Expelliarmus, and all sorts of other things, stunners, a shield charm for Merlin's sake—"

"The only difference between you and me is that I spend more time with Hermione." Harry interrupted, still trying to keep his voice low. Ron got in moods like this sometimes, and it was important to cut him off before he worked up a full head of self-flagellating steam. "She's mental, and she spent all of last year making sure that I wouldn't get eaten by a sphinx!"

Neville opened his mouth to protest again and Harry, words hot in his mouth, couldn't let him say one more negative thing about himself "I think Captain Luther's going to put us through our paces this year, and she'll probably help get everyone up to a good spot. Plus, I've already promised to help everyone—" Harry waved his hand at the sleeping room "with shield charms. I can help you with the other stuff too, if you want."

Neville's mouth wavered for a long moment, like he was thinking about saying something and then changed his mind. Finally, Neville's mouth firmed and he nodded, as if he were agreeing with some command.

"Okay. Thanks Harry. Think you can get back to sleep?"

Harry nodded himself now, yawning theatrically to demonstrate. "'Reckon so."

"Night, then." He left with one final, friendly squeeze of the other boy's shoulder.

Harry's sleep was peaceful.


	5. Whatever Works

When the five "Leons", as Maggie insisted on calling them—"Gryffindor 'Lions', but with an 'e' because of the barracks, get it?"—trooped together to breakfast and then to their first lesson on Tuesday morning, Harry was in considerably improved spirits, despite the worry in the pit of his stomach that the Lion banner had somehow exposed his position as the anonymous Harry Smith.

Harry found the classroom in which the theory portion of Defense Against the Dark Arts almost completely sterile, nothing but desks, chairs and clean walls to distract from the lesson.

Captain Luther stepped in, her dark eyes flashing over the assembled students, and the class was instantly silent. A wide basin or bin—the edges covered with strange runes—levitated behind her, trailing along like a faithful hound. As she reached the front of the class, the basin settled itself on a table. The bowl was filled to the brim with the same faintly luminous substance that Dumbledore had shown them only a few days before—another pensieve.

"Today, we're going to be reviewing the duels from yesterday afternoon." Captain Luther began. "For those of you who couldn't make it, we'll be at the dueling circles again this afternoon and tomorrow afternoon. Speak to your Barracks captains to make sure that you have some time one of those days."

"Yeah, except for the five of us who are an unfairly subjugated minority because of these anti-democratic rules . . ." Glory muttered angrily, to no one in particular. Captain Luther's dark eyes flicked to Glory's desk, but she didn't say anything as Glory's voice drifted away.

Captain Luther tapped it with her wand, and the light dimmed in the room. Slightly luminous silver human figures, about 18 inches high, rose from the basin. Harry could make out his own silhouette, standing next to one with Neville's square shoulders on one side, and then two shapes who were obviously Cynthia and Apollo on the other. The figures then proceeded to act out their duel from yesterday—Apollo and Cynthia shooting silvery light at Harry and Neville, Harry reflecting Apollo's shot and disarming him while Neville went down like a sack of potatoes, Harry running, twisting to simultaneously snatch Apollo's wand and dodge Cynthia's oncoming spell before falling on his face too.

"Did everyone get a good look at that duel"? Captain Luther asked. Harry noticed that Neville didn't like the attention much either, he was hunched down in his chair, cheeks red.

Cynthia raised her hand. "I thought Harry's shield charm was very impressive."

"Indeed." Captain Luther's wand flicked and the words "Shield charm" appeared on the blackboard.

"Smith's shield charm, while very impressive, was only the second most interesting thing about that duel to me. Can anyone guess what I found most interesting about it?"

The room was silent. Harry glanced at Neville as they both shrugged their shoulders at each other.

Captain Luther made a noncommittal grunt. "Let's watch a few other duels, shall we?" With a wave of her wand, a second set of silvery figures rose from the pensieve. Harry recognized one of the pairs as Cynthia's cronies, Kate (with a sheet of long, straight hair) and Marty, with a Goyle-esque pudding-bowl haircut.

As the duel began, the two teams stood there, still as statues, tossing hexes at one another until, one at a time, they finally went down until only Kate was left standing.

Without comment, Captain Luther queued up another duel, and then another, and then another. Each one looked the same to Harry, two pairs of students standing there trading jinxes, not flinching or moving until one of the teams was down on the floor. The closest anyone came to taking a step was Cynthia; in one of her duels, one of her opponents managed to hit the ground at her feet, causing clods of dirt to spray her shoes and the hem of her jeans. Cynthia jerked her foot back in obvious disgust, before neatly stunning both opponents.

The class witnessed several of Cynthia's duels, actually, and Harry had time to admire Cynthia's speed—she was blazing fast on the draw—and accuracy, which was a steep improvement over most of the students Harry saw, who (in Harry's estimation) couldn't have hit the side of the cafeteria building from ten feet away.

Finally, the Captain raised the lights in the room and the silvery figures dropped back into the vapor, dissolving back into nothing but memories and vapor.

"After watching a number of the partner duels, I want to ask again if anyone noticed anything remarkable about Smith and Little's duel, other than the shield charm?"

The class was silent as the Captain stalked the front of the room, the predatory gleam once again prominent in her dark eyes. Finally, she called "Smith, what do you think?"

There was a long, silent moment, where Harry wondered what to say. "I think everyone needs to move their feet more," Harry said.

"Smith, I could not agree more." With a forceful flick of her wand, the word "MOVE!" appeared in block letters on the chalkboard.

"I believe that some of you may have had some training in one-on-one dueling, using dueling platforms. Solo dueling is performed on narrow platforms, like those on the southern end of the dueling area. Training in this style of duel is incredibly valuable; oftentimes duels can take place in narrow, cramped areas like hallways or tunnels; later on this year, I think the Major will regale you with the tale of her duel with the Red Contessa, a particularly vicious lieutenant of Gellert Grindewald's that took place in an ancient castle. However, here " she tapped the pensieve with her wand again, bringing everyone's attention back to the two-on-two dueling circle it was showing—we have a huge amount of space to use, both to defend, and to attack. We're going to be spending a lot of the semester going over movement drills . . . "

Defense led to potions, and Neville's posture was so rigid and defensive as he, Harry, Glory and Maggie sat themselves around one of the large black tables that filled the potions room that Maggie noticed.

"Hey Neville," she nudged. "You okay? You look like you're going to have a seizure or something." He did; Harry could see the muscles of his neck standing out with tension.

"I . . . ," he licked his lips. Harry knew that Neville's worst fear was Professor Snape. "Potions isn't my best subject."

Harry snorted. When his new friends looked at him questioningly, he shrugged. "Neville and I shared a, er, tutor and he was . . . a very bitter man, who likes to take it out on students. He didn't like me that much either."

Glory smiled reassuringly. "Mrs. Bloodworth is okay. She's really nice. Ask her to tell stories about her Grandfather sometime, he was a really cool dude. Fought in the Civil War and all that."

Madame Bloodworth was really nice. She glided in, elegantly dressed in an acid green skirt and white blouse, her hair done up in cornrows with brightly colored beads, and addressed the class with a crimson lipsticked smile. The potion they were working on—a strengthening solution—was similar in complexity to what they'd been doing at Hogwarts, but she spent ten minutes at the beginning of the class going over the steps to the potion and saying things like "Now, make extra sure that you slice the ginkgo root, rather than dicing it, the potion will fail to turn the orange color we're looking for," or "It's important here that the cubed portions are all of identical sizes, so use a second Devil's Snare pod if it looks like the one you have isn't wide enough on the ends." Her advice made Harry feel more confident than usual as the five of them began pulling ingredients for the potion out of the student cupboard.

Halfway through the lesson, Neville's hand suddenly shot out to grab Glory's cutting board as Glory was tipping it to dump the sliced roots into her cauldron. "That's not ginko root, that's ginger root. I don't know what it'll do to your potion, but . . . "

Glory pushed some of her hair out of her eyes, recoiling from the sharp ginger scent with a disgruntled "Ugh". She quickly dumped the ersatz roots into the trash. "Thanks Neville! I owe you one!" she hurried to the cupboard to get new ginko roots.

"Well spotted, Mr. Little. Let's give you . . ." she stopped, her eyes sweeping across the room before settling briefly on Cynthia. "How did the election go this morning? Who is your new barracks captain?"

Maggie rolled her eyes. "Cynthia, same as last week."

Madame Bloodworth's expression was unreadable. "And have the . . . arrangements changed as to how Miss Richmond allots honors and demerits?"

Maggie shook her head. "Pretty much the same. Except we have Neville and Harry to divide things now." Madame Bloodworth's eyes swept over the group, lingering approvingly on Harry and Neville

"I see. Well spotted, Neville." She swept off.

"What was that about?" Harry muttered to Glory under his breath.

"She was going to give our barracks honors—little privileges, or treats, for doing well in class and going 'above and beyond the call of duty'. The barracks captain gets to decide how they're distributed, and is supposed to hand them out fairly, but Cynthia would just collect them and not distribute them to us, so . . . " Glory shrugged, an angry pinch to her expression.

Harry shook his head.

Harry and Neville both produced excellent potions—clear and bright red, with robust bubbles that appeared when shook and they were both in good moods when, after the lesson, they filed back to the mess hall for lunch.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully, although by the time Harry and Neville had escaped from weeding in the greenhouses, the dueling circles were deserted. After dinner, a bone-deep weariness set in for Harry and Neville making homework (or responding to Della's tentative questions about shield charms) nearly impossible. Maggie diagnosed them both with jet lag, and when they wearily shuffled to the infirmary, Mr. Benedict raised his eyebrows and advised them to sleep.

"Acute Desynchronosis" he intoned smoothly "is not a life threatening medical condition."

Wednesday and Thursday followed much the same pattern; classes in the morning, weeding in the afternoon, weary homework and practice in the evenings. Professor Tempin pulled Neville aside after their transfiguration lesson on Wednesday for a quiet word, but Neville just shook his head when Harry asked him about it on their way to their next lesson.

Harry made his way to the cafeteria early on Friday morning to find Neville listlessly picking at his oatmeal.  
"Oh, hi Harry," He dully lifted a spoonful of his breakfast and let it fall back into the bowl with a thick glop.  
"Um, Morning, Neville." Harry sat down, feeling awkward. He'd never seen Neville in such a dispirited mood. "Looking forward to taking the elevator down to the river after lessons? Della said it was a relief to aguamenti the stuffing out of each other and swim around a bit."

On Friday, lessons ended at lunchtime, and most students took advantage of the free afternoon to take the elevator down to the base of the Mesa and jump in the River. It wasn't just Delia; everyone said how fun it was to slip into the cool river after a hard week of sweaty work up on the Mesa. Harry had noticed a certain wistful expression in Delia's eyes as she looked at Neville and hoped that a little female encouragement might bring Neville back to his usual cheerful self.  
"Yeah," Neville sighed "I expect it'll be fun, you'll have to tell me about it."  
Harry blinked. "You won't be there? What's up?"  
"Remedial Transfiguration," Neville said dispiritedly. "I, Neville Longbottom, have been assigned 'remedial transfiguration' after only one week. Don't tell my Gran about it or she'd die of embarrassment,"  
"Mr. Tempin seems nice." Harry offered "And maybe it'll—"  
But Neville was already shaking his head.  
"What do you think he's going to make you do?" asked Harry curiously.

"Probably practice the wand motion and incantation for ten minutes and then work on transfiguration basics until I go mad and start hexing him. If I'm killed in the melee and Mr. Tempin has broccoli coming out of his ears, the counter-jinx is "Rubiferous".

Harry mulled this over, including the most un-Neville-like air of gloom and resignation.  
"Have you had, er, extra transfiguration before?"  
"Loads," said Neville resignedly. "First with Hermione, then with some tutors my Gran found, then with McGonagall. Nothing helped. I'm like a squib when it comes to transfiguration."  
"How does McGonagall keep passing you, then?" asked Harry.  
"Well, that's just it, everyone seems to think if I understand transfiguration basics, if I understand the theory—" Neville's mouth twisted sourly around the word "then I shouldn't have any problems. That's not it! I've got the theory! My theory is great! If transfiguration were entirely theory with no practical, I'd be doing better than Hermione! As it is I'm barely passing and even my switching spells fail half the time."  
"What do you mean 'Transfiguration Basics'"? asked Harry.  
"Well, you know, whenever you cast a spell, there are three parts—the incantation, the wand motion, and what Professor Dumbledore and McGonagall call the "force of mind", which is the visualization, the picture in your head of what you want your spell to do. Does any of that sound familiar?"  
"Yeah, kind of." Harry's mulled it over. "I'm rubbish at theory, and Ron and I weren't friends with Hermione the beginning of first year, so she didn't make us revise."  
"Well, in transfiguration there are only a handful of spells, right? It's 'inanimeo' for inanimate to inanimate transfigurations, there's another for inanimate to live transformations, a third for animate to animate, and one for switching spells, right?"  
"Sure," Harry agreed.  
"So then, why are there a bunch of spells that . . . turn stone into another kind of stone, say? Or transfigure spoons to forks? Or matchsticks to needles?"  
"I've never heard of those spells," replied Harry honestly.  
"Yeah, well, most people haven't because most people never need them. Anyone using a spell to turn an inanimate object into a different inanimate object uses inanimeo because why remember a spell that turns metal into wood when you don't have to?" Neville gave a great, gusty sigh before answering his own question. "Those specific spells are easier because they rely on more wand motions. Because the spells are more specific, the "force of mind" bit is easier, so if you lack strong imagination. . . "

It was obvious to Harry that Neville was referring to himself now.

"Like Crabbe or Goyle," Harry prompted.

Neville smiled weakly. "Yeah, if you lack a strong imagination, like Crabbe or Goyle, or you're honestly just not that bright, then you can probably do a matchstick into a needle with foremensus or acus, even if you can't do it with inanimeo. Inanimeo also isn't ever going to be as efficient at doing one thing as the spell for that purpose—it's never going to be as good at turning basalt into marble as a spell designed to do that, but unless you're a sculptor or something, most people will never have cause to need that spell."

"And these spells, like foremensus, you can't do them either?"

Neville shook his head, obviously crestfallen. "I mean, sometimes they work. Just like, you know, sometimes I can cast a switching spell without attaching my ears to a cactus. But I can't do it reliably and I never seem to get better . . ."

He trailed off, dragging his spoon through his oatmeal with a scraping sound and watching as milk filled in the recently open channels.

"Well, I'd offer to tutor you, but if you spoke to Hermione already . . .well, she taught me everything I know, so . . ."

"Thanks Harry,"

"But I really think you should talk to Mr. Tempin about that. I like McGonagall, and I think she's a good teacher, but Mr. Tempin seems a little more . . . 'out there' if you know what I mean. Maybe he'll have some idea McGonagall hasn't tried. When is your lesson?"

"There's History this morning, and that 'Applied Lateral Thinking' thing with Tempin afterwards , whatever that is, so I think after that."

"Good luck," Harry offered, turning and waving to Glory as she carried her breakfast over to their table "Hopefully he'll let you out in enough time to head down to the river with us."

"Yeah," replied Neville gloomily "Hopefully,"

The first lesson on Fridays was History, a lesson that everyone arrived early for. The room was spare, with little decoration except for a chalkboard. Harry was surprised when Major Montgomery herself swept in, setting down a briefcase and some manilla envelopes. Harry saw her eyes quickly flash to each desk in turn, ensuring everyone was present, before beginning her lesson.

"Last week we covered the earliest stirrings of dark wizardry starting in Mesopotamia, Egypt, China, and the Indus Valley, as well as some far-flung wizarding traditions in Australia, Missouri, Mexico, Brazil, and Peru, which developed largely independently from other centers. This week and next, we'll be discussing the wizard Herpo the Foul, one of the earliest dark wizards whose work and biography are available to us . . . "

It was far and away the most interesting history lesson that Harry had ever had. Everything that the Major referenced she connected to the present, spells that he'd known or heard of. Other than the single time he'd seen Goblins at Gringotts, Harry wasn't sure he felt connected to any of the history that Binns had presented.

"Herpo the Foul invented the body-bind curse, which was considered dark magic for thousands of years until the counterjinx was created by a wizard in the renaissance, we'll talk about that later in the year . . . "

Harry shivered when she described the first basilisk, which Herpo created by incubating an egg with an enchanted toad. "Before it was eventually killed at the cave in Delphi by the witch Artemis Aspropis, Herpo's basilisk grew to more than 30 feet long. The basilisk had amazing regenerative properties and was considered nearly immortal. Her gaze could kill instantly and her venom had no antidotes – "

The end of class rolled around, and Major Montgomery was issuing homework assignments "—and I want 12 inches on question 4 at the end of the chapter, the one asking about Herpo's treatment at the Athenian Wizard's Council."

Glory raised her hand, a puzzled look on her face. "Major, didn't we talk about how Herpo attempted to influence the creation of the Solonian laws in 594 BCE?"

"We did, Glory, yes." The Major responded neutrally. Her eyes were tight with some emotion that Harry couldn't read.

"I thought that the Athenian Wizard's Council was established after 229 BCE? That's . . . more than 350 years later."

"You have the dates correct." Major Montgomery nodded, eyebrows raised encouragingly. "Did you have a question?"

Glory answered "I mean . . . How did Herpo the Foul live that long? 350 years is too long, even for a wizard."

"But not too long for Herpo the Foul. The last thing I want to mention until next semester when we discuss this further, is that Herpo the Foul was killed by a Roman Wizards named Gaius Lucius Aelius in 86 BCE as the Roman Legion put down a rebellion in Greece and Macdeon."

"But . . . " Glory sputtered "That would mean he lived to be more than 500 years old!"

"529. Fascinating, isn't it?" The Major's smile was at once understanding and grave. "We'll return to this topic in the New Year, I promise."

"Applied Lateral Thinking" was in Mr. Tempin's room, and Harry looked around curiously as the five of them sat, waiting for the lesson to begin. There was a detectable energy among Delia, Maggie, and Glory.

"You wait, Mr. I'm-Terrible-At-Theory-But-Can-Cast-A-Shield-Charm," said Maggie, almost vibrating. After four nights of studying together she'd already clocked his scattered and results-focused study habits. "You're going to love this. Everyone calls this 'Whatever Works'. He's going to give us a task, and we're going to have to figure out how to do it. Last week he had this little marble maze, and you had to get this metal ball from one side of the maze to the other. You got honors—"

"Or we would get honors if we weren't living in a system of government that encourages tyranny of the majority—" Glory shot in, but Maggie rolled her eyes and spoke over her.

"—yes, that, honors for coming up with a technique no one else has used before. I levitated mine, Delia transfigured hers into a small mouse and got it to run through the maze—,"

"After it ran around and smelled the roses for a while," Delia smiled self-effacingly. They laughed.

"Still a good piece of transfiguration though," said Neville morosely, his mind obviously on his remedial lessons later.

"What did you do, Maggie?" Asked Harry curiously, eager to take Neville's mind off things.

She leaned forward. "The tiniest, most adorable, cutest little blasting charms you ever saw. Blew that ball straight through the maze!" She cackled, obviously proud of her solution and everyone laughed. Harry felt a pang of homesickness; that was the kind of thing Fred and George would have done, and McGonagall would have written Mrs. Weasley about.

Mr. Tempin entered, swinging his arms energetically and rubbing his hands together. "Okay crew, we're going to go outside for this one today, just a quick walk." Everyone filed out, and after a brief walk they reached a small pond, the blue water sparkling in the bright light. Dark, leafy, fronds waved from the floor of the pond.

"Alright Barracks E, your test today is to spend five minutes on the floor of the pond." There were some groans of complaint through the group, although Harry's heart lifted; he could do this one, no problem. It might take him a few tries . . .

"I am certain that all of you can do at least one of the solutions we've thought out for this problem. Just a reminder, you have to do the magic yourself, no asking your classmate to transfigure you into stone or anything like that, okay? Any questions?"

Glory raised her hand, a sly sidelong smile on her face. "Mr. Tempin, could someone, say, use blasting charms to blow the water out of there?" She was clearly asking for Maggie's benefit, who put on a faux-outraged expression.

Mr. Tempin laughed. "No, no blasting charms today. Please leave the water in the pond for me, please. Any other questions? No? Then get to work."

Harry turned to Neville. "Got our work cut out for us, right mate?"

Neville looked around wide-eyed his expression bewildered but hopeful. "Do you think—I mean, in the pond—is that?"

Mr. Tempin's voice cut through the general chatter of the group as everyone. "I hope all of you get to work quickly. Unless I'm much mistaken, Neville has already spotted one of the solutions." Neville stood there, a deer in headlights, until Mr. Tempin gave him an encouraging smile. "Go for it."

Neville nodded, biting his lip. He kicked off his shoes and awkwardly jumped in the pond.

It had all happened so quickly that Harry hadn't even had a chance to draw his wand. He stared at the disturbed water for a second, expecting Neville to come back up and cast a spell, but he never did. As the water cleared, Harry could see Neville floating around, apparently quite happily, at the bottom of the pond.

"But what did he do?" Asked Cynthia loudly, her voice petulant. "Did anyone see him cast a spell?" Harry hadn't. He hadn't even seen Neville draw his wand.

Harry drew his own wand, and performed a charm that Hermione had drilled into him following the nearly disastrous second task last year. What was the wand motion again? There was a funny little backwards loop at the end, wasn't there?

"Spiritum Bella," Harry said, and the sun's brightness dimmed a bit as a silvery-blue bubble appeared around his head. If he'd cast it correctly—and he'd know in short order if it had worked or not—the bubble-head charm would let him breathe underwater. It was what Warrington has used on the second task, and Hermione was furious with herself that she'd failed to check The Standard Book of Spells Grade 6 for the spell Harry needed to survive the Black Lake. Certainly it should allow him to sit on the bottom with Neville for five minutes.

"Well done, Harry, that looks like it should hold well. It's a tricky spell, but if anyone wants to learn the bubble-head charm, the book is in the Library, spellcasting section, Spells for All Situations by Miles Thackery, that's T-H-A-C-K-E-R-Y—" While Mr. Tempin was speaking, explaining where to learn the spell, Harry kicked off his shoes and slid into the pond.

His first thought was that the water was freezing, especially after the hot, sunny September afternoon up above, his second that the bubble-head charm had worked. The pond was pretty big—the same size as one of the barracks where they held class—but wasn't particularly deep, only ten or fifteen feet, and the light reached all the way to the bottom. He swam down and grabbed a large rock to keep himself from floating back to the surface.

Neville grinned and gave him a thumbs up.

"Thanks,' Harry said, his voice muffled by the bubble but otherwise perfectly audible, grinning back before pointing at Neville. "What did you do?"

Neville pointed at one of the long, wavy fronds sprouting from the floor of the pond, mimed tearing off a piece and then eating it, then gestured at his neck. Harry could see long gashes in Neville's neck, just like . . .

"Is this . . . Gillyweed?" Harry asked, gesturing at the wavy weed. Neville nodded, his broad grin splitting his face. They sat, companionably for a few minutes.

Harry felt a strange bubble of happiness in his chest as he looked on at the other boy; Harry remembered how comfortable in the water he'd been after eating the Gillyweed during the second task, and Neville looked more relaxed and confident than Harry had ever seen him, a proud smile playing across his lips.

Harry drew his wand, pointed it at Neville, and shouted "Flippendo!"

Neville flew backwards in the water before shaking himself and looking at Harry, shocked. Then he drew his wand and pointed it at Harry, who had kicked away from his rock and was dashing for cover behind some nearby fronds of Gillyweed. The resulting spell missed him by inches. They chased each other for a few minutes, Neville's greater maneuverability in the water (due to the gillyweed) a good match for Harry's better aim with his spells.

It was nice, once Harry got used to the chilly temperature, the kind of thing he and Ron would have done to blow off steam at the end of a long week. And it was certainly more pleasant than the last time he'd had to spend underwater; the Black Lake had been vast and murky, full of shadows and creatures and creepy songs,but this pond was filled with clear blue light, the gillyweed fronds casting green and purple shadows on the faces of the two boys as they hid behind rocks and fronds of weed, throwing silly hexes at each other.

Some minutes later, Neville paused, waving at Harry to get his attention. He tapped his neck and then shot toward the surface like a bullet, Harry close behind.

"Well done, boys," Mr. Tempin said as Harry's head broke the surface and he dispelled the bubble, clambering out of the pond. "12 minutes down there, and you're up before anyone else has found a workable solution," Neville was puddled on the ground and judging by his gasping breath, he was getting used to breathing air again. Harry joined him, enjoying the feeling of warm sunlight on his chilled limbs.

Around the edge of the pond Cnythia, Apollo, Kate, and Marty were crowded around a book, practicing a familiar wand motion and incanting "Spiritum Bella" under their breath at random interludes. Starr sat apart from them, looking curiously at Harry and Neville.

Delia, Glory and Maggie quickly joined them.

"Way to go, Neville!" Glory said. "That was awesome! I don't think Mr. Tempin expected anyone to solve it that fast."

Delia leaned close too, grinning in excitement but her voice low. "Yeah Neville, that was awesome, Cynthia sounded like such a whiner. "Did anyone see him cast a spell?," she mimicked Cynthia's petulant tone perfectly and they all laughed. "But what did you do?" her voice was very quiet now. "We've all been talking about it, and none of us could figure it out. It wasn't a bubblehead charm like Harry, because we would have seen and you need to use that before you get in the water . . . "

"There's gillyweed at the bottom of the pond," answered Neville, sitting up and gently checking the sides of his neck with his fingertips. "I've been looking for it, because I'm in the greenhouse every day, but aren't any tanks in there, and Gillyweed is important for all kinds of medicinal potions that they have to keep stocked, and Gillyweed has to grow in natural moonlight, and doesn't respond to any of the artificial lights that I've heard about . . ."

Maggie gave one of her joyful, surprised cackles, albeit slightly quieter than normal. "You just jumped in the pond and ate some of that seaweed? Cynthia is going to blow her stack when she figures it out. She was insisting you must be able to cast nonverbally."

Harry's eyes flicked to Cynthia's posse, hunched around the book, and as if on queue Cynthia glared at the bunch of them. Harry gave her a little jaunty wave.

Mr. Tempin had arrived by their group. "Alright boys, full credit. When you're ready, head back up to your barracks, get dry, and then go for lunch. Harry, if you want to take the elevator down to the river, Madame Bloodworth will be there to escort everyone at one." His voice dropped a bit. "Neville, I'll see you in my office at that time, okay?"

Neville deflated a bit, but nodded.

"Now Gloriana," continued Mr. Tempin turning to her "I can see you've been working on transfiguring this rock, why don't you tell me what you have in mind and I'll see if I can give you any pointers."

"Well, Harry's bubble-head charm gave me an idea, and I was trying to transfigure a diving helmet out of this rock, but even though I've hollowed it out and engorgio'd it a bunch of times, it's still not big enough . . ."

Harry helped Neville up, and they started off back to the Barracks.

"That was a really good idea, Nev," Harry told him. "I've eaten the stuff and I couldn't have recognized it from above the water,"

"Yeah, well, I wasn't certain at first, because they're so far down that it's hard to distinguish the purple highlights that run along the stipe, but like I said, I knew they had to be growing some somewhere and I could definitely recognize the finger-like lamina—"

Neville chattered happily as their damp footsteps lead them back to the barracks.

"Swim trunks, swim trunks, swim trunks—" Maggie muttered, digging through her trunk after lunch. Her trunk had three locks, and seemed to work like Moody's had, with different contents depending on which key you used. She'd open it, rummage around piles of gum, candy, mints, floss, and (for some reason) hats of every description, close it, and open it to reveal a different set of contents: shorts, sandals, t-shirts, dress robes and -

"Swim trunks!" Maggied cried gleefully pulling out a pile of swimsuits that had been stuffed into a corner of the trunk after the third opening. She sorted through them rapidly before pulling out red trunks with yellow racing stripes and throwing them at Harry. "These should fit. Do you have any sandals? Probably not a lot of call for them in Ireland or wherever," she closed the trunk, opened it, and pulled out a pair of brown sandals with fastenings around the back from the trunk and shoved those into his arms too.

"10$, you can pay me later! We don't want to be late!" and she scampered off to dress herself.

Ten minutes later, everyone flip-flopped out of the barracks in t-shirts and swimwear into the afternoon sunshine as they assembled in front of the rickety elevator with Madame Bloodworth. Madame Bloodworth looked her usual elegant self, this time in a hot pink sundress with a yellow straw hat that shaded her face.

"Alright everyone, nice and orderly into the lift!" she called.

TK

Mr. Tempin's office gave Neville an immediate feeling of coziness as he walked in. The walls—paneled in a pale colored wood—had sconces holding various magical plants, their fronds, creepers, leaves and vines reaching out to caress him as he entered. Mr. Tempin desk was backed against a huge window that looked out onto a verdant, rainy landscape. Neville liked the sun—he'd developed a deep tan working in the Longbottom Greenhouses that summer—but the cool, green hillside behind Mr. Tempin's desk was soothing after a week in the mesa's hot sun.

"Mr. Little!" Tempin said as he walked in. "Or should I just say Neville? I'm glad you've arrived. Can I get you anything to drink? Water? Pop?"

Neville shifted uncomfortably. "Um, sure. Whatever you're having." He looked down at his shoes, flushed with embarrassment at being pulled out of class for remedial lessons during only the second lesson.

There was a thunk and a can was placed on the desk in front of him, shiny silver gleaming in the afternoon light of the cozy office. Neville looked up as Mr. Tempin flicked his hand on the top of the can, eliciting a snap-hiss. Neville's eyebrows knit together as he reached out to pick up the can. He closed his hand around the can, lifting it up to inspect the silvery label.

"Bar-Ques," Neville read slowly. "What is this?"

"It's an American soft drink called root beer. Do you like it?"

Neville took a sip and his eyes shot open. "Yes!" It was so . . . bubbly and frothy! The sweetness played over his tongue like his first sip of ambrosia. He took another sip.

"I'm glad you like it. It's a very American beverage; lots of people don't like it because it's too sweet, but Americans" and here he smiled wryly and rolled his eyes "like to put ice cream in it."

"Well, I'll have to figure out a way to procure some once I'm back home," declared Neville stoutly.

"Excellent." Mr. Tempin leaned across his desk. "Now Neville, you know why you're here."

Neville's eyes fell to the desk. "Because my transfiguration is terrible."

"It could certainly use improvement," Mr. Tempin agreed, his eyes kind. "But there was a time in my life when transfiguration didn't come easily to me, either. I've got some techniques that'll help, okay?"

Neville nodded, his eyes fixed on the can of root beer.

Mr. Tempin pulled out a heavy book from behind his desk and set it down with a thump. "Your wand motions and pronunciation seem to be perfect, so we're going to work on something called "Transfiguration Basics", which you probably haven't looked at before -"

Neville barely suppressed a groan, but something of his disappointment must have shown on his face as Tempin broke off.

"Have you worked with transfiguration basics before, Neville?"

"Yes, and they haven't worked any better than inanimeo or switching spells. Well. " he rolled up his sleeves and pulled out his wand to get started. "My tutors in the past started with foremensus for turning matchsticks into needles, but I find doing that silly rolling motion a nineteen times in a row hurts my wrist, so I'd prefer acus if it's all the same."

"You've worked on transfiguration basics before?" Asked Tempin, obvious surprise written on his face.

"Loads." Agreed Neville. "With my, er, Transfiguration Professor, and some tutors, and the best student in Harry's and my year."

Tempin looked intrigued. "Can you show me acus, then?" He asked, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers. "Oh, you'll probably need this." He drew a match out of his desk and placed it in front of Neville.

Inanimeo had one of the most basic wand motion known to wizardkind, a quick forward sweep followed by a sharp jab or tab, depending on what you were doing. Acus, by contrast, had over forty motions involved, little twirls, circles, jabs and arcs, swishes, flicks, and a final little figure-eight motion. "Acus!"

The matchstick twitched and turned into a perfectly shaped needle . . . that was still made of wood. Neville groaned.

"That's very interesting, Neville. I promise I won't make you do it too many times, but may I see you do foremensus as well?"

Neville did foremensus as well, a spell which contained over 50 motions, nineteen of which consisted of a back-and-forth waggle-spiral.

Then he performed several inanimate-to-animate transfigurations including viriditarchamus (45 motions, turning the provided snuffbox into an ivory-inlaid mouse), cimexus (the beetle died immediately, its guts leaking through four holes where thread would have run through the button), testancer (71 motions—the resulting crab failed to do anything but spin in circles, pinching itself with mismatched claws).

During this entire exercise, Mr. Tempin never left his intrigued, steepled-finger position, watching Neville's every swish, figure-eight, and waggle. When Neville finished the 81 motion pateravis (the resulting pigeon looked okay, in Neville's opinion, although it stood too straight, and why was it wandering around with its mouth open toward the ceiling as though expecting a sudden rain?) he said "That is fascinating. Thank you Neville, that'll be quite enough."

"Are you sure?" Neville asked glumly. "I'm pretty sure I can do slippers-to-rabbits too."

"I don't wear slippers." Mr. Tempin said absently. "Well Neville, you've given me a lot to think about. As the man says, this one is definitely a two-pipe problem. I'm going to give this a think—can we talk about this after class this week?"

"You don't . . . " Neville face fell. "I'm hopeless, aren't I? My Dad was an auror, my Gran was one of the greatest witches or her generation. But I'm just . . . " He trailed away, feeling hopeless. "My other tutors all spent hours and hours before giving up on me, working on my wand motions, making me sit and think and imagine and focus on what I was trying to do." His voice cracked. "I don't get it! Am I stupid? Is it that I can't focus? Mr. Tempin, why am I so hopeless?"

"You're not hopeless Neville. Far from it." Mr. Tempin said kindly. "You just performed over 250 wand motions perfectly for six different spells. I've been teaching transfiguration a long, long time and I'm going to be honest, I probably couldn't do slippers-to-rabbits. What's the incantation? Lepusalceus? And how many wand motions? 115?"

"Just Lepuseus. And it's 117, but that depends on whether you count the slash-hook motion as one motion, like Carolineus does, or you think the motions work better if you treat them as separate—"

Tempin waved his hand, dismissively. "Exactly what I mean. Listen Neville. Imagine you're a muggleborn student, you show up for your first day of class, and you're shown the wand motion and the incantation for lumos, but you don't know what the spell does. You perform the wand motion, say the incantation . . . what happens?"

Neville frowned. Could you perform a spell without knowing what it was supposed to do? This felt like a trick question. ". . . Nothing?" He finally hazarded.

"Exactly. Without knowing what the spells does, even if you do the motions correctly, you don't get a result. But the second you tell a student that it makes light, even a brand-new wizard can perform the spell. There's very little visualization required for lumos or most other charms."

"Okay . . . " said Neville slowly, not understanding where this is going.

Tempin continued "Transfiguration is orders of magnitude more complex, which is why it requires such a strong" he tapped his temple for emphasis "mental component. But basic transfiguration is more like a charm; you do the wand motion and incantation correctly, you get the right result. The hard part is there are so many wand motions, getting all of them correct is very difficult."

"And since I'm doing the wand motions and incantations correctly, the mental component isn't the problem." Neville finished for him, finally cottoning on.

"Exactly. And I've never seen someone who can memorize and perform all the 117 wand motions for Lepuseus that didn't have the force of mind to do a basic switching spell. Something else is the matter. I just need to figure out what it is. Okay?"

Neville thanked the professor and left his office with two more cans of root beer—one to share with Harry, of course—and a lot to think about.

When Neville arrived back at the barracks, he expected everything to be dark and quiet, everyone having gone down down the Mesa to swim in the river, but instead he found Harry sitting by a window, his textbooks arrayed in front of him. He had probably intended to study. Neville set the cans on a nearby table with a soft clink, so as not to startle him; he startled so easily, sometimes . . .

Harry didn't startle now. He turned, a smile on his face. "Hey Nev. How did things go with Mr. Tempin?"

"Fine," Neville replied automatically, then opened his mouth to ask about the river when he closed it again for a long minute.

"No, it wasn't just fine. It was great, actually, Mr. Tempin . . . Mr. Tempin doesn't think I'm stupid, or bad at transfiguration, and he was really complimentary about my ability to do all the wand motions in all basic transfiguration spells we tried. He . . . " Neville's voice faltered here for a second "he doesn't know why my transfiguration spells are going wrong yet, but he doesn't think it's, you know, my fault, so . . ." he trailed away. He felt so excited about the possibility that he wasn't just some Goyle-esque failure at transfiguration, that he wasn't just damaged or "a little soft in the head," he felt like he could sing!

Harry reached over and punched him in the shoulder, a fierce smile on his face. "I told you! Told you, didn't I? That he was going to have some different ideas that McGonagall. When did he'd say he'd know what you should do?"

"Sometime this week, he said," Neville sat next to Harry and offered him one of his cans of root beer. "Have you had this before?"

"Root beer? Yeah, although Dudley was more of an orangeade kind of bloke." Neville pointed his wand at the can to open itwhen Harry grabbed his arm.

"Don't open it like that, it might explode!"

Neville's hand shot away from them both, a look of terror on his face, as if he were worried the can of soda were a bomb. "Explode?! But . . . I mean, Mr. Tempin wouldn't give us anything that dangerous, would he?"

Harry laughed at Neville's utter terror on Neville's face. "I'm sorry Nev, I didn't mean it would explode like that, I just meant, if you open a can of soda wrong, or shake it too much when you open it, the fizziness on the inside goes mad and sprays you, let's put that one down for right now, and I'll show you how to open the other one here until that one has a chance to settle down.

Harry showed Neville how to slide how to slide his thumbnail under the tab and slowly crack it open, creating the exact snap-hiss that Neville had heard it make at Mr. Tempin's desk.

After Transfiguration on Monday, Mr. Tempin called "Okay everyone, I want two pages on Friday, one on comments on Chapter 3, one on criticism or critique, where you think the author goes wrong and how you can do better. Harry, Neville, can you stay after class for a minute?"

They did so, Neville looking excited, Harry slightly confused.

Once the classroom had emptied, Mr. Tempin asked "Harry, can I ask where you got your wand?"

"Er, I got it from Ollivander's in Diagon Alley." Harry answered, perplexed.

"I've met Mr. Ollivander. An excellent wand maker, as I understand it, one of the best in the world." Correctly reading Harry's expression he added, smiling "But also a little strange."

"Yes, definitely," agreed Harry thinking of the man's spooky demeanor. "It's, er, holly, with phoenix feather, if you wanted to know."

"Really? I've only met a handful of people with phoenix feather wands. Dragon heartstring and Unicorn Tailhair are so much more common. . ." Harry hadn't known about phoenix feathers being rarer, although the only other person he knew of with a phoenix feather wand was Voldemort, something Ollivander himself had told him. Mr. Tempin turned to Neville. "And your wand, Neville?"

Neville swallowed. "Ash and unicorn hair. Mr. Ollivander made this wand too." His hand was deep in his pocket where Harry knew he kept his wand.

Mr. Tempin's dark eyes were knowing. "But not for you."

Neville shook his head, looking downcast. "It's—it was—my dad's wand."

Harry hadn't known this. "But didn't—when I got my wand, Mr. Ollivander said that you never got the same results from another wizard's wand."

"But it's my dad's!" Neville retorted fiercely, gripping his wand tightly. "If there's anyone that can use it, it should be me!"

Mr. Tempin shook his head. "For some wands, it works like that. Sons can use their fathers' wands. Or spouses can share. Maybe best friends, or close siblings. Because of their connection, the wands will allow a second hand to use them. Some wands will even change allegiance entirely if their owner loses a duel. Ash wands though, they're famously—or maybe, infamously—picky and will only work for their owner."

"You think I need a new wand." Neville said thickly.

Mr. Tempin nodded. "I think it's what's causing your difficulties with transfiguration, yes."

Neville's mouth was set in a mulish line and his eyes were flinty.

"Neville, your dad was an auror, wasn't he?" Asked Harry.

"Well, yeah. One of the best, Gran says."

"Well, the thing about Moody, or, you know, the guy we thought was Moody, he's very practical. Carrying a wand that's not sure for you, one that can't protect you as well as another wand, or can't help you protect other people as well as another wand . . . That's not very practical, is it? He wouldn't want that."

Neville was silent for a moment, mulling it over, before nodding.

"Let's just . . . not tell Gran, until we have to, alright?"

"Excellent." Declared . "Neville, I've secured a portkey after classes today to meet a wandmaker. Can you meet me at the elevator at five o'clock? You're welcome to come along as well, Harry.". Harry groaned at the thought of another portkey ride, but nodded.


	6. Redwood and Holly

The portkey landing from the empty patch of desert near the Mesa was not as bad as the ones Harry and Neville had taken last week, if only because it dumped Harry into a soft pile of leaf litter rather than a glacier, a gravel-covered rooftop, or a rocky desert.  
As Harry dusted himself off, he began to notice the enormous trees surrounding him. They were far larger than any trees he'd ever seen before, even in the Forbidden Forest. Harry wasn't sure if every Gryffindor in his year with their hands joined together would be able to circle the base of some of these behemoths, their straight red-brown trunks holding crowns towering hundreds of feet in the air. Harry rather thought the effect was rather like being in a huge cathedral; grand, open, and hushed.  
“Alright there Harry?” Neville asked cheekily. His good spirits, already largely recovered over the course of the day, seemed more than sufficient at this point to tease Harry about his inability to stick his landing on a portkey.  
“Yeah, yeah.” Harry brushed the rest of the detritus from his jeans. “Mr. Tempin, where are we?”  
“Sequoia and Kings Canyon National Park in California, about. . . . 800 miles from the Mesa.” He peered around a moment to get his bearings. “ This way.”  
Mr. Tempin and Neville, at least, had landed on a well maintained path leading further into the trees. Harry hurried to catch them.  
Neville was staring open-mouthed at the trees in absolute wonderment. “How big is this forest? How do they keep it hidden from muggles?” Neville stopped in front of Harry to place his hand on one trunk bigger around than the Hogwarts Express, his greenlit expression one of such tender reverence that Harry wished he had a camera.   
“This is a muggle forest.” Harry answered and Neville turned to him, surprised. Harry mussed up his hair nervously. “Er, you know what I mean, it’s not a magical one. I did a report on it back in primary school.”   
“Wow . . . “ Neville stroked the trunk, his eyes upturned toward the canopy hundreds of feet above him. Feeling silly, Harry placed his own hand against the rough bark, his shoulder just brushing Neville’s, trying to fit into his friend’s wonderment at the existence of this place.  
Mr. Tempin had stopped to observe them. “The trees can grow to be nearly 400 feet tall and 30 feet in diameter, leading to some of the tallest and most massive trees in the world, mundane, which I believe is the word you were looking for earlier Harry, or magical. They can also live to be more than 2,000 years old, which is one of the reasons I think the wandmaker we’re coming to see makes her living here. They make her feel young.” Mr. Tempin’s voice was gentle, but it was clear that they didn’t have the time to linger.  
Reluctantly, Neville peeled his hand away from the trunk and they continued down the trail.  
“This wandmaker.” Neville began as they skirted a particularly gargantuan specimen whose roots encroached on the path “what is she like?”  
“She's even older than Dumbledore, if you can believe it, nearly 200 years old. She's spent her whole life learning magic from people all over the Americas.”  
“What’s her name?” Asked Harry, still trying to wrap his head around the span of years this woman had seen and trying to find an appropriate mental yardstick for her age. If she was 200 now, when she was fifteen like he was it would have been 1796, give or take. Before the Napoleonic wars. When Westingham had founded the mesa she’d been in her seventies or eighties. The thought gave him the shivers, somehow.  
“I have no idea.” Answered Mr. Tempin cheerfully. “When I was here last, I asked her, and she told me I could call her what I liked, as she hadn’t used her own name in a hundred years. I called her “Miss Sequioa” and “Grandmother”, and she seemed to like those well enough. Here it is.” He stopped on the path, turned himself sideways and squeezed between a pair of ancient trees whose trunks had sprung up exceedingly close together. Neville did the same and Harry, by now used to the ways Wizards kept themselves hidden from Muggles, followed suit.  
When Harry had squared himself again after he’d exited the gap, he found himself in a small clearing with a neat wooden hut in the center, smoke rising from the chimney. The clearing was edged by five other pairs of trees, all springing up from the ground just as closely together as the ones that made the gap Harry and Neville had just exited.  
After checking to make sure Neville and Harry had made it and were safely behind him, Mr. Tempin knocked on the wooden door to the hut and then waited. A noise like a bell rolled from the tiny hut echoing among the trees in the valley they found themselves in.  
Mr. Tempin was smiling now. “She knows we’re here and will be along in a minute.”   
A brief moment later, they heard a voice call out “Kuma!” as a woman slipped into view from between two of the trees circling the cabin. She was tiny—Harry doubted she’d reach any higher than his chest—with brown skin more creased and lined than the Marauder’s Map and silver hair in a braid down her back. Her boots, blue jeans and flannel shirt wouldn’t have looked out of place on a muggle hiker. Despite her obvious age, she strode vigorously through the undergrowth, a floating pile of sticks and deadfall following her like a faithful dog.  
“Kuma, my boy! You’re looking well.” Her dark eyes were lively as they took in Mr. Tempin standing in front of the tiny cabin. She pointed, and her faithful pile of deadfall obediently settled itself in a neat, stacked pile. She rapped her knuckles on the door into the cabin and entered as the door opened of its own accord. Before she vanished entirely, she turned to wave them in. “Come in, come in!”  
Mr. Tempin followed immediately, but Neville and Harry shared a quick glance before following them inside.  
After his experiences with wizard buildings, Harry wasn’t sure what to expect from the hut. It was small, wooden, and neat, with a stone chimney rising into the air, smoke cheerfully puffing out of it. Windows opened on one side, but the interior was so dark he couldn’t make anything out about the interior. As he ducked inside the low door frame, he was shocked; the hut was exactly the same size on the inside as the outside. A bed was tucked against one wall, a small bookcase next to it. On the other wall was a small kitchen and a lit fireplace with a kettle over it. If it had been eight times larger, Harry thought that Hagrid would have been very at home.  
“Would you like tea?” The kettle was already pouring hot water into four mugs. Her voice was quietly husky. “I don’t bother with loose tea anymore, I’m afraid.” She commented as some tea bags settled into the hot water.   
“Yes, please,” Harry and Neville murmured.  
“Sit, sit, sit.” She commanded imperiously, using the same gesture that had settled the pile of sticks. Mr. Tempin, Neville and Harry sat in the chairs gathered around the table. Now that they were closer, Harry had a better look at her eyes. They were as black as Snape’s or Hagrid’s, sharp and curious like a bird’s.   
“Grandmother, this is Harry Potter, and Neville Longbottom.” Mr. Tempin said. Harry shared an uneasy glance at Neville; neither of them had been expecting Mr. Tempin to blow their cover. “They’re visiting the Mesa from Hogwarts.”  
The two boys politely waved their hellos, clutching their mugs of tea. Mr. Tempin hadn’t been  
A smile crept across her face. “Two of Albus’ boys, then hmmmmm? How is that young rascal doing?”  
Young rascal? Thought Harry, struck again by the gulf of ages that separated them.  
“He’s doing quite well, Ma’am, at least, the last I saw of him.” Neville answered politely. “But with Voldemort returned, I expect he’s been very busy.“  
Grandmother tutted. “Yes, yes, I know all about that. But I’m not interested in that so called Dark Lord. Bah. No, no. Albus was nice enough, when I met him. Is he eating enough? Does he still think he’s the clever one?”  
Harry’s green eyes met Neville’s brown ones in disbelief. Whether the headmaster was eating enough was not something either of them had thought much about. Finally Harry settled on a polite “It’s not really my place to say, Ma’am.”  
She waved her hand. “Of course not. But mark my words. Albus’ problem has always been that he doesn’t eat enough and he thinks that he’s the only clever one. Him and his friend Gellert and his friend Tom, all clever boots, and they don’t respect anyone enough to change their opinion.”  
“I’ll tell him next time I see him.” Harry assured her.  
Grandmother laughed, a rough chuckle. “Be sure that you do, young warrior.” She turned to Mr. Tempin. “Kuma, how did the affair with your girl go?”  
Mr. Tempin’s penny red skin turned even rosier. “Grandmother, the last time I visited, it wasn’t about impressing Kate, it was about completing my Transfiguration mastery—“  
“Kuma.” She chided, her face a picture of disbelief. “Lie to someone younger, they may have the time. How did it go?”  
Mr. Tempin sighed, looking down at the table and tracing the grain of the wood with his finger. “She loved it. We have three kids. I should bring them around some time.” He looked almost sheepish beneath Grandmother's kindly stare, and for a moment, Harry could tell that from Grandmother's perspective, Mr. Tempin was barely older than he or Neville. It was a startling thought.  
“And you, my quiet one,” Grandmother turned her gaze on Neville, her mug in her fingers, her gaze thoughtful. “You’re a long way from home.”  
“No further than Harry,” Neville replied stoutly. She smiled in agreement. “No, but your friend here is due for battle one day, and it’s common for such young men to wish to see the world before their time comes.” Goosebumps erupted down Harry’s back. He didn’t like the sound of his time coming at all.   
“He is of fire and smoke, and he has a passionate nature which will lead him far and wide before he is allowed his happy time at the hearth, but you, my gardener . . . you are the hearth. And such young men. . . they tend to wander less.” She smiled warmly, and Harry realized that some time around the founding of America, she would have been very beautiful.  
“So tell me, gardener, what brings you here.” Neville opened his mouth to reply, but she continued “I do not mean here,” she gestured at her small cabin “I mean the New World. The Mesa, with Kuma and Harry.”  
“Dumbledore thought it was a good idea,” Neville replied, looking slightly lost.  
She frowned. “And yet, if young Albus told you now he thought it a good idea to return, you would stay.” It wasn’t a question, and the old witch’s eyes were flinty, piercing.  
Neville’s mouth opened to reply, but nothing came out except a hesitant “I don’t know what you mean,“ he said finally, his mouth firming into a line.  
Grandmother smiled. “I think you do. I think in your heart that you fear your reasons and you fear that you are beneath their nobility. Please believe me when I tell you that nothing could be further from the truth. I’ve seen many men in my time, young gardener, good men and bad men and exciting men and boring men, and you are good and stubborn and worthy of beautiful things.” She reached out with one of her tiny, wrinkled hands and placed it on Neville’s cheek.  
Neville’s eyes were wide and wondering.  
Grandmother dropped her hand and turned to Mr. Tempin, her voice suddenly brusque and business-like. “Now, Kuma, tell me why you’re visiting today.”  
Mr. Tempin face was relaxed and easy. “Neville, could you show her your wand?”  
She frowned as Neville drew his father’s wand out of his pocket. “May I?”  
Delicately, he handed it over.  
She licked her finger, pressed it to the wand’s tip, then pressed her finger to her tongue.  
She stuck out her tongue as if the taste offended her senses. “Pfagh! I’m surprised you can do magic at all with this. Your father’s, I imagine? Not even the British would be foolish enough to use a grandfather’s wand, I do not think.” She brought the wand close to her eyes and grunted again. “Ash, as stubborn as they come. Even more stubborn than you, young gardener, and that is saying something.” She rose to her feet. “Come, come,” she handed the wand back, bustling quickly to the door “I have just the thing, I finished it just last week, and now I find that it is for you . . .  
They all filed out the door and Grandmother entered a small wooden shed. Through the door, Harry could see that it was very cozy, even if everything from the chairs to the worktables was rough-hewn. Grandmother turned and beckoned Neville inside and picked up a long wand from the work-table with two fingers, offering it to Neville. As soon as Neville’s hand touched it, a warm wind shot from the shed, brushing Harry’s cheek and tossing his hair, and one of the legs of the worktable sprang to life, sprouting thin branches and putting off green leaves.  
”Hush now,” Grandmother said, gently brushing the table-cum-tree with her fingers. “It’s no longer your time. The leaves curled up and it slowly changed back to dead wood, albeit looking much more richly carved than before.  
“The wood is redwood, for a strong heart,” she thumped her chest to demonstrate “and for strength, for pride and for the willingness to do great things, to grow tall and to spread wide branches with deep shade. The core is thunderbird feather, for surprise, for hidden depths, and for the hope of spring rains and renewal after a long winter.”  
Mr. Tempin turned his head to hide a smile from Neville. He shook his head at Harry’s questioning glance and whispered “I’ll tell you later.”  
The Wandmaker and Neville exited the small workshop, Neville staring at the new wand in his hand.  
“Now.” Grandmother was rubbing her hands together, an eager glint in her dark eyes. “I recommend that you do as much magic as you can with that until you two grow acquainted with one another. It’s normal for wizards to have a bit of trouble with control , especially at first. New wands can be quite . . . exuberant, sometimes, so I wouldn’t go cursing your friends without a healer present.”  
The sun was setting now, as the four of them stood outside Grandmother's workshop. The light had gone rosy as well as verdant and the trunks around the clearing cast long, blue shadows at them.  
“I’d offer you dinner of course, but I’m afraid I don’t have enough to feed three men.” Grandmother said apologetically, and Harry saw Neville out of the . “Would anyone like another cup of tea. . . ?”  
“We should be getting back to the Mesa.” Mr. Tempin replied regretfully. “We’ve been a little longer than I expected already. Mr. Longbottom was more taken with the redwoods than I anticipated.”  
“That is because he’s a boy of wisdom and good sense. One other thing.” She stepped into her small cabin and emerged with a small clay pot containing and a single, tiny plant, which she presented to Neville.  
“This is a seedling from the tree that gave the wood for your wand. I believe that it would enjoy Scotland--tell young Albus that it is a gift from me.”  
“I will Ma’am.” said Neville, handling the pot reverentially.  
“And you, Mr. Potter.” she reached up and placed a rough hand on his cheek. “Every breath you take—every breath anyone takes—comes from plants.” Her eyes were boring into his. “Remember that, if you see anyone struggling to catch their breath, will you?”  
“Er—y-yes, Ma’am.” Harry said. This woman was starting to give him the creeps. She seemed nice enough, but like Ollivander there seemed to be something . . . otherworldly about her, sometimes.  
She patted his cheek again and turned to Kuma, wrapping her arms around his middle and giving him a hug. “You’re a good boy, Kuma. Say hi to your Kate, for me, and bring your children around sometime, so I can meet them.”  
“I will, canwoochin. Be well.”  
Mr. Tempin pulled an empty chip bag out of his pocket, tapped it with his wand, and three, two, one seconds later they were hurtling through the air back to the Mesa.  
One short hike and and a bumpy lift ride later, Mr. Tempin waved goodbye to Harry and Neville as the two boys went straight to the cafeteria for dinner, “afternoon weeding time” having been avoided (happily in Harry’s case, less so in Neville’s). After their long hike through the woods, Harry was ravenous.   
His stomach dropped when he spotted Della, Glory and Maggie sitting together. He’d managed to avoid them without appearing to do so over the weekend—coming to lunch late, or leaving early from dinner by saying he was jetlagged or needed to do his work, but he wouldn’t be able to avoid them now.  
His worst fears were confirmed when he and Neville sat, their trays bumping the table.   
“Hey, Snakebite,” Maggie called, her voice gleefully sly. The other two laughed, and Harry’s face grew hot.  
“What do you mean?” Neville asked, bless him. He turned around, as if expecting Maggie to be referring to someone just behind them.  
“Didn’t Harry tell you about his terrible “snake bite” accident?” Glory’s voice was also full of laughter.  
Neville’s eyebrows knit together in confusion and he turned to Harry “You didn’t tell them—“  
Della broke in, barely able to contain herself “And don’t forget the rat attack on the other arm!” All three of them burst out laughing. It was plain as day that they’d been dying to discuss this but hadn’t had the opportunity.  
“No, I didn’t tell them—I mean, it just kind of slipped out—” Harry said, responding to Neville. He trailed off.  
“On Friday afternoon, when we were down at the river,” gushed Maggie “This big California surfer dude from Cabin A, Blake or something--”  
“Bruce,” muttered Harry.   
“Yeah, him,” Maggie agreed “he looks at Harry and looks at that wicked scar on Harry’s right arm and says,” here she affected a deep, relaxed voice that Harry had to admit was a pretty good impression “‘Hey dude, nice scar. How’d you get it?’ and then Harry, no hesitation, deadpans “Snakebite.”” All three girls erupted into laughter.  
“And then,” said Della gasping for air and continuing the story “then, Bruce asks about that nasty gash on Harry’s other arm, six inches long, and Harry just says “That one was a rat,” and cool as a cucumber asks Madam Bloodworth if he can go back to the Mesa to do his homework.”  
Neville lifted his eyebrows as he surveyed the three giggling girls. “I don’t understand why you’re laughing.”  
“Oh, you should have seen Bruce’s face, the way Harry just deadpanned snakebite, when that scar—” she giggled.  
The scar—a remnant of Harry’s basilisk in second year—was as wide across as a drinking glass in the front of his bicep, where the basilisk fang had entered, and wider in the back, where the venom had eaten away at the flesh of his arm. Even with Fawke’s phoenix tears, it was still a big, ugly scar; the back especially looked like ugly curdled yogurt, lumpy and misshapen. Harry didn’t like it.  
“No, I mean, it is a snake bite. Harry found a great bloody snake in his basement and killed it with a sword his crazy grandfather kept in his hat, isn’t that right? It was all anyone in Ipswitch could talk about for weeks. My gran—” he coughed “asked me to look around in our basement for a snake so she could impress her tea circle.”  
Harry’s heart lifted, and his face split into an unconscious grin at Neville’s ridiculous doubling down of Harry’s tall tale. The girls looked suddenly uncertain.  
“. . . and the other arm?” asked Della, tentatively.  
“A freak rat, a 200 pound transfiguration accident that escaped and attacked me,” said Harry, his lips uplifting slightly before he smoothed them down. “It . . . killed one of my friends, but I got away.” He wasn’t much of an actor, but it was easy enough to channel his own feelings about Warrington in this situation. “I don’t . . . really like talking about it. I think my Godfather wanted me to come to America for a . . . er, change of scenery.”  
He looked around the table at the girls. Glory looked confused and suspicious, Della tearful, hands on her mouth, and Maggie shocked.  
“Any other questions, about my past injuries? I had a quidditch accident when I was 12 and got the bones in my arm broken, and the healer was an idiot who vanished them rather than healing them, but - “ Harry wiggled his hand for emphasis “no scar, there.” He was very careful not to smooth down the fringe on his forehead or draw attention to it.  
Della and Maggie shook their heads, while Glory just kept her head down, brow furrowed. Harry’s stomach sank, he hadn’t meant to make it more awkward and uncomfortable -  
Finally, Della looked up at Harry, a smile on her face. “Still, it was pretty cool how you shut him down with just ‘Snakebite.’” There was still the faintest hint of a giggle in her voice. “It was kind of rude of him to just ask you how you got that scar,”   
“Like we did, you mean?” asked Maggie.  
“We didn’t actually ask—” objected Delia.  
“It was definitely implied,” retorted Maggie “and honestly, sort of implying in a weasely way is probably even worse than straight up asking, gossip-like—”  
“We’re his friends, we sleep in the same room and eat lunch together, that’s totally different than a random dude who’s never met him—!”  
The rest of dinner passed normally, cheerful bickering and all.  
The following afternoon, Harry was watching Neville garden. Neville was hunched over a raised bed the size of a swimming pool, pulling out weeds, his t-shirt sticking to his back with perspiration. He was whistling tunelessly, the bright noise filling the cavernous space with a sound that Harry found at once cheerful, endearing, and very irritating.  
But what intrigued Harry was what Neville was doing with his wand. There hadn’t been any chance to practice magic last night after dinner, and this morning had been Potions and the classroom portion of Defense; not a lot of “foolish wand waving” there. Neville had stuck his new redwood wand into his back pocket and periodically took it out to jab it at a patch of soil, which became lighter, and he then proceeded to mercilessly tear out every scrap of intruder from that portion of the soil.  
And he did it all while whistling.  
“Hey Nev?” Harry called. Neville turned. “What’s that spell you’re doing?”  
“Hm? Oh, it’s solutum, just wave, and then a point-and-jab. It’s a soil tilling charm, loosens the soil so the roots get a little aeration and it makes it easier to pull up weeds. Why?”  
“You’ve been whistling the whole time. Have you always been able to cast it without the incantation?” That was post-OWL work, and very difficult.  
Neville was suddenly statue still.  
“I . . . no.” he said slowly “I mean, I cast that spell all the time over the summer, Gran lets me cast spells in the greenhouses, you know she thinks I need as much help as I can get, and I’ve always had to use the incantation.” He pulled his wand out of his back trousers pocket and pointed it at the soil, his lips conspicuously closed.  
The soil lightened, right where he had pointed it. Lips still pressed together in a good impression of an irate professor McGonagall, he jabbed his wand again and again, a patch of soil lightening right where he pointed every time.   
Neville stared at his wand like he’d just drawn the sword from the proverbial stone.  
He turned to Harry.  
“Can you show me the shield charm?” he asked, excitement writ large on his face.  
“Uh, sure. Honestly, I’m not sure why everyone’s so fussed about it.” Harry stood and drew his wand.  
“It’s just a swish, left to right, kind of going upward like you’re drawing a sword, with an upwards flick on the end. The incantation is Protego.” He demonstrated, the silvery shield popping into place in front of him.  
Neville’s brow furrowed and his mouth opened as if he were going to say something, but he closed it and planted his feet. His hand traced the moment Harry had described for a moment. “Protego!”  
There was perhaps the faintest sheen of silver, the tiniest breath of air, but nothing else. Neville frowned, and did the motion and incantation again.   
And again.   
And again.  
He turned to Harry, his lips in a tight line. “What am I doing wrong?”  
Harry shook his head. “No idea, mate. What you’re doing looks exactly like what it feels like I’m doing. Let’s give it a rest for a bit, and we’ll try with the others this evening.”  
Neville nodded glumly, and they reluctantly returned to tending their plants. Harry felt that it was suddenly very quiet in the large space.  
After dinner, the Leons were gathered in their barracks doing homework; Della and Glory were working on charms homework, Harry and Neville were writing transfiguration essays for Mr. Tempin, and Maggie had just returned from a walk outside.  
Harry cleared his throat.  
“So, I was wondering if anyone wanted to try shield charms. . . ?”  
“Yes!”  
“Of course!”  
“Most definitely!”  
A short minute later, Harry was standing in the focal point of a loose semi-circle. He demonstrated with his wand.  
“It’s just a short wand motion and incantation . . . “ Harry demonstrated, just as he had for Neville; a short, upward swish, like drawing a sword with a vertical flick on the end. “Protego!” the shield sprang into place, comfortingly solid despite its translucent appearance.   
But as the others tried the spell, Neville still got a shadow of the shield, fait and insubstantial, but the others got no result at all.  
After ten minutes of shuffling, hand movement and sounds of “protego!”, Harry called it quits.  
“Okay, hold up, this isn’t working. Does anyone have any ideas about why I can do it?” After a long beat of silence, Harry continued “Well, me neither. I’m going to write a letter to my friend that taught me, and we’ll see if she has any ideas. I’ll let everyone know once I’ve heard back from her and we’ll reconvene, alright?”  
There were murmurs of agreement. Harry sat back down where he’d been studying with Neville, pulled out parchment and a quill, and began “Dear Hermione (and Ron) . . .”


End file.
